Stormy Weather in Paradise
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: Five years later, the connection between Kruger and Lorelei remains strong, despite the space and obstacles between them. Even in a seemingly perfect world, danger is never far away. Can a girl from Elysium possibly contend with the most dangerous man alive? Paradise Years #2.
1. When Last We Met

**Stormy Weather in Paradise**

**by Invisible Ranger (HBF), 2014**

**Disclaimer: Elysium and all its characters belong to /Media Rights Capital/Sony Pictures. This is for the jazz and not for profit. OCs are mine.**

**Dedication: To MauMauKa and leave your sanity at the door, two of the best friends anyone could ask for. **

**Author's Notes: Sequel to "A Long Way From Paradise." It's certainly inspired me to write, and we'll just see where it goes from here. Thanks to my lovely Wrecking Kru for their tireless support. **

Chapter 1

Lorelei knew he was there.

In a way, the dark man never left her. When she was awake, often she found her thoughts unintentionally drifting to him, and always at the most inconvenient times: while trying to sit for an essay exam in class, the garden parties and formal dinners, when she was supposed to be putting on a brilliant display of her charm and prowess playing Mozart on the violin, the awkward introductions to an endless parade of "nice young men" at her aunt's or mother's house. Every one of these…and Lorelei had started to dread their visits… she subconsciously pictured with the same vaguely defined face, that dark, bearded, angular visage looming just beneath a tattered burlap cowl.

And then there was bedtime. That was a different matter entirely; strictly the boogeyman's hour, when he would regularly pay his visits. He, the most dedicated and tireless of all, would simply hover there as if watching over her in his own twisted way. The strangest part was, she could actually _smell _him during every one of these sojourns, a curious mélange of sweat, musk, and sour tobacco smoke. He also liked to touch her. Oh, boy, did he ever. Not in the so-called inappropriate ways, yet he would reach out, take her hand, send that eerie weird-but-cool feeling coursing through her body. Definitely unnerving, but she'd strangely come to crave it in her own way.

_If that wasn't real, then what was? Am I going crazy?_

The adults in her life hadn't been much help on the subject. _Tante _Jessica was busier than ever at work, and barely listened to anything she said. Dr. Perine called the nocturnal visits "hallucinations," and always liked to gently change the subject whenever it arose during a session. Mr. Smith, her shadow, her bodyguard…her _ally_… was only slightly more sympathetic than the two women.

"What do _you_ think he represents, Miss Delacourt?" he might say in that enigmatic Zen way he had of answering questions with more questions.

The truth was, she hadn't come up with a suitable answer yet. The obvious choice was fear: in the years following the events of her fifth birthday, which she still couldn't properly remember, Lorelei had experienced sudden, intense panic attacks at the strangest, and most awkward, of times. The sight of a plastic bucket a younger child had left in the sandbox at the playground. At the house of a friend of her mother's, when the woman had shown off her prized blood-red begonias growing in the garden. On a field trip to the CCB broadcast center, when the techs had spoken of the satellite office in New Johannesburg, South Africa. On top of all that, Lorelei had developed a near-crippling claustrophobia; dark, enclosed spaces triggered screaming fits and seizures, one of which, in an elevator, had sent her to the hospital wing again after she'd clawed at herself so badly as to draw deep gouges. The wounds had healed nearly instantly as they always did, but even Aunt Jessica had shown up in a panic. That was how serious it had been.

All of it begged to be put together, made sense of, _solved_ somehow. Lorelei had long since given up discussing these random triggers with Dr. Perine in their daily sessions, as they usually just meant a stronger dose of meds. She'd talk about her feelings, and how her day had gone, or why she'd smacked her annoying classmate Michel right in the jaw, but admit she was weak and afraid of something so trivial?

_Never_.

"C'mon, where are you hiding?" she whispered, as if to taunt her opponent to show himself. She tightened her grip on the little pistol in her hand, ready to shoot at a millisecond's notice.

In this place as well as outside, the dark man had proved elusive. Lorelei had spent countless hours hacking into the CCB's classified filesand the massive databases of Earthbound criminals' records looking for him. If she just had a name for him, perhaps it would make him less scary. Thousands of mugshots and photos, countless reports…and still she was no closer to knowing his true identity.

Yet he was real. He _had _to be real. If he wasn't, why had she become so obsessed with the very idea of him, walking that razor-thin line between sanity and craziness as she searched? A long time ago, she had given up believing in make-believe things like unicorns. That her seemed like a different person entirely. This version of herself had _seen _the dark man, who surely was made of bone and blood rather than air and fantasy, not just in her dreams, but in the land of the living. Someday, somehow, she'd find him.

At the moment, her lithe, ten-year-old body was a coiled spring at the mere thought, ready to explode. Mr. Smith had tried to teach her how to quiet the body and the mind, and, while he hadn't always been successful, one thing she had learned well was stealth. If an enemy couldn't see or hear you coming, he couldn't hurt you. Walking now on the balls of her little feet, Lorelei crept through the corridors of what she'd come to think of as her own Memory Palace. She had to keep reminding herself it wasn't real, otherwise, she might have spent entire days in here, chasing after her faceless enemy. This was merely a sim, and, like all the VR constructs on the torus, it was top-of-the-line, resetting itself for each new entrant so that no two sessions were alike. It interfaced directly with her thoughts…and since her thoughts were nearly always of him, Lorelei would find herself pursuing him through venues as diverse as an abandoned tanker ship, a steaming jungle, a bombed-out city ruin.

This time, the sim was just playing with her: it had manifested as Helene's Versailles-replica home, where Lorelei still visited weekly but hadn't lived in nearly five years. Every time she did go, without knowing why, Lorelei experienced a cold finger of dread running up and down her spine. Especially in and around the salon on the second floor, where her mother kept her second, smaller med-bay.

"Oh, don't be silly, _petit_, there's nothing to be afraid of in there. If you're worried, why don't you come to my room and help me pick out a dress for the soiree tonight? The Carlyles will be attending, you know…" That had been the most recent visit, and, as usual, Helene had gabbled on about nothing, oblivious to her daughter's terror. Typical, which was why Lorelei had taken to spending so much time in the Memory Palace.

Lorelei held her weapon at the ready, using the proper's shooter's posture Mr. Smith had drilled into her. The boogeyman could be anywhere in here, and she wanted to get the jump on him, subdue him, bend him to her will. _Why have you been watching me_? she desperately wanted to ask. _Who are you?_

A flicker of sudden movement caught her eye. She whirled on her heel, pointed…_too late_. The dark, hooded figure pounced, a nightmare come to horrible, vivid life, right before her eyes. In his right hand, as he almost always did, he held that long, wickedly sharp blade. And he used it at its intended purpose, swinging it in a flashing arc toward her head, her exposed neck. The weapon smashed into a thousand pixels, which would have been her own blood if the thing had been real…and then vanished entirely.

"_Simulation terminated. Replay?"_

The cool, distant female voice of the sim's AI announced it before Lorelei could. Frustration welled up in her like water behind a crumbling dam. Tears stung her eyes. No matter how hard she tried, how diligently she trained, the faceless man was always one step ahead. He knew her better than she knew herself. Lorelei angrily flung away the Asgari pistol, which didn't have live ammo anyway, from her hand, hearing it clatter away somewhere down the now-empty hall.

"I'll find you. If it's the last thing I ever do, I'm gonna track you down, you bastard," she said to no one in particular, voice trembling.

~~s~~

"Ah. I'm glad I caught you here, Agent Smith. I wanted to get an update on Lorelei, since I'm finally out of meetings," Secretary Delacourt said, Manolo heels smartly clicking across the floor. The training facility's doors slid shut with a brief _whoosh _behind her. "She's in the sims again, isn't she?"

The whole time Lorelei had been engaged in her practice session, Garrett Smith had been carefully observing her from the hidden platform over the VR simulation room. It wasn't technically spying…she knew full well he was there…and yet, even after knowing her for five years, he always felt strangely guilty for doing so, as if there was something secret going on in her world to which he should, and would, never be privy. "I don't try and stop the flow of a river, Secretary," he mused aloud, "but I can attempt to harness its energy properly. She is still coping with her traumas, and she must deal with her anger and frustration. This is a healthy way for her to do so, and I must say, she's coming along very well. Besides, whether you like it or not, self-defense is an essential skill for her."

Delacourt joined him on the observer's balcony, and they both peered down at Lorelei, who had begun to pace back and forth, muttering something under her breath which neither of them could hear behind the thick, soundproof glass. "Indeed. It's not a talent I'd have picked for her, though. Why can't she spend as much time and effort practicing her violin, or getting to know people at the parties? Things that will actually help her succeed later in life? Even getting her to wear proper clothes is like pulling teeth. I know I enjoyed those things when I was her age, but no, she'd rather be in here, playing soldier…"

The big man chuckled, a surprisingly jolly sound from someone of his bearlike size and build. "But you see, she is _not _you. She is her own person. Believe me, she can be stubborn when she wants to. I've met Russian mafiosos and hardened jihadi terrorists less stubborn than this girl," Smith said with a wry smile. Almost playfully, he added, "I wonder where she gets that from?"

"Don't remind me." Delacourt wished it were happy hour; she'd spent most of the day in tedious contract negotiations with an Armadyne subsidiary and felt like a glass or two of Pinot right about now. The fact that her niece was skiving off a ballet lesson to shoot at ghosts made the craving even worse. "How is she, really? Still the same, or getting better, do you think?" Every day, she asked him some variant of this question, always hoping she might finally get the answer she wanted.

"Ah." The humor disappeared as quickly as it had come, and his face took on its usual stoic, pensive cast. "I am no analyst…I leave those matters strictly in Dr. Roi-Schultz's capable hands…and yet, if you want my honest opinion?" Smith looked down at Lorelei, who had retrieved her pistol and reset the sim for simple target practice. "Jessica, she's a very special child. Sensitive, for sure, and so intelligent for her age. But she has a fire burning inside her too...and it's easy to see why, knowing her composition. Maybe it was there before the Incident but that surely did nothing to quench it. She needs an outlet for that side. You can have her take ballet and violin lessons all you like; they won't do for her what this does. Look. She's enjoying herself," he said, gesturing down at where Lorelei was hitting mark after mark. "Children, normal children, go through enough without bearing any added burdens. This one has enough for ten."

Delacourt couldn't really argue with him, and that was what irritated her. Lorelei's road to recovery had not always been a smooth one. There were days when her niece seemed perfectly normal, sweet, even, like the innocent little soul who had once dreamed of unicorns and tea parties and dress-up time. Then there were what she'd come to think of as the stormy days. When Lorelei kicked or punched her classmates, acted out defiantly in public, or locked herself into her room. Lately there had been a lot more of the latter than the former. "I know you and Perine are doing everything you can for her, and the fact that she's come so far already means the world to me," she told him, emotion choking her words. "It's just…I wish there were something _I _could do. Lorelei just doesn't listen to me. When I have dinner with her, or take her to an event, it's like we're having two different conversations. If I ask her about school, or her friends, she shuts me out. It's as if she's a teenager already, but she's only ten, for God's sake." Delacourt almost wanted to laugh at that. "Isn't there something I can do? I'm not her mother, and she has her own set of issues with Helene, yet I feel as if I'm missing something. What is it, Smith? Help me here," she practically begged him, the frustration seeping into her normally cool, collected voice.

"Are you seeing her tonight?"

"_Absolument_. We'll be headed home in my aircar from here. I have to have a little talk with her…why are you looking at me that way?" Delacourt frowned, not sure where he was going with all of this talking in circles.

Smith gave her the kind of serene, knowing smile that she always associated with the faces of saints in long-forgotten church frescoes. "If I might be so bold, simply let her be. At least for tonight, as an experiment. Let her do most of the talking; any blind man could see something is bothering her, and if I've learned anything as her mentor, it's that Lorelei will open up when she wants to. 'Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.' Do you know who said that?" he asked.

"I couldn't begin to guess." Literature had never been her forte. "Aristotle?"

"You're in the right era. Lao-tze. Studying his work, I'm always reminded, and humbled, at how little I really understand about the world. Even after nearly two hundred years of life," Smith said, looking down fondly at Lorelei as he did so, "there are still a good many things that reignite my sense of wonder. Lorelei has done that. She is special indeed, and I'm privileged to know her. Even on the days when, shall we say, she tries even my patience."

The Defense Secretary didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was precisely the kind of conflicted dilemma she dealt with daily. "She has a real knack for that. I only wish she possessed a few more, well, feminine qualities. If only she could dance, or sing, half as well as she shoots. My God, when that girl sings, one can almost see the paint peeling from the walls."

They both laughed, grateful that the girl couldn't hear them.

"I take it she hasn't met up with 32 Alpha, or his thugs, since the night of," Smith said after the light moment had passed. He never seemed to mention Agent C.M. Kruger by name, as if the very act could summon the volatile South African from wherever he happened to be. "She seems rather obsessed with him even after the wipe. Dreams, you know. The other day, she told me she had one in which I was white, and," his nostrils flared in indignation, "had a bloody beard, and that terrible accent." Nothing ever got to Garrett Smith, and brought out his vitriol, quite like being likened to his notorious fellow Gen 1 agent. "Can you imagine? I thought Dr. Roi-Schultz had cracked that particular nut."

In all honesty, Delacourt had as well. Lorelei's memory wipe had been constructed so that she would not remember anything associated with the Incident, Kruger, or anything that had happened on her fifth birthday. Nevertheless, as Perine had warned, the subconscious was a slippery eel indeed. There was always the chance that something would remain after even the most careful wipe. Clearly, as evidenced by Lorelei's determination to play war games and dress in fatigues instead of skirts, a piece or two had stubbornly clung on. At the very thought of Kruger, Delacourt couldn't help but wince. "I've sent him into death trap after death trap for the past few years, Agent Smith. Congo, East Turkestan, that awful mess in Chechnya. As you well know, he not only survives those situations, but seems to rather enjoy himself in the process. That being said, keeping him busy also keeps him far away from Lorelei." She smirked, seeing Smith's barely disguised distaste at the idea of Kruger harassing the girl. "As for his men, I've split them up, remember? Agent Drake now has his own command, and he hand-picked Agent Crowe to fly that new _Rook_-class ship. They haven't caused me nearly so much trouble without their leader to get them into unnecessary mischief, and they're doing quite well. Besides, you could say I actually owe the two of them."

"You could just get rid of those three troublemakers, especially 32 Alpha, permanently. The man is an accident waiting to happen again. Did you ever think of that?" The calmness in Smith's voice was gone; cold, hard steel took its place. His dislike for the Oryx Squadron was an open secret, but for some reason he had never divulged, he especially loathed Kruger.

She paused. The thought _had _occurred to her more than once…especially the night of the Incident, when she wished she could have strung Kruger up by his balls…yet Delacourt knew that was impossible. "Agent Smith, you of all people should know why that won't happen," she explained, giving him the most benign expression she possessed. "The bureaucracy alone, and the CCB's sheer need for manpower, prevent us from discharging any veteran agent. You've seen Agent Kruger's files; you know what he's done, and still, he's with us."

"Like bloody syphilis," Smith muttered darkly. "Can't get rid of the bastard."

"For those without med-bays, yes, that's an apt metaphor. However, with at least a dozen different hacker cells, insurgencies, and assorted Earthbound deviants occupying my plate on any given day, not to mention being Lorelei's _de facto_ mother, I hate to admit this, but I can always use someone like Agent Kruger to clean up messes," Delacourt said, a strange gleam in her eyes. "He is nothing if not efficient. You read the Kuala Lumpur report from last week, I take it?"

He had. A raid in the city; six gun runners and one of their female associates dispatched in the most brutal ways imaginable. "The man is about as subtle as a piano dropped from the sky, isn't he?" Smith asked rhetorically. "He lacks finesse." As he spoke of Kruger, he carefully studied Lorelei, wondering if he wasn't seeing another manifestation of the hated 32 Alpha before his very eyes as the girl mercilessly picked off targets.

"I pay _you _for your finesse and wisdom, Agent Smith," Delacourt reminded him warningly, "and Kruger for his respective talents. I have kept the two of you apart as per our agreement. You'll never have to work with him again. Let him do what he does on Earth; I'll continue to trust you to help Lorelei."

That much _was _true; aside from seeing him across crowded rooms a few times at official CCB functions, Smith had not crossed paths with Kruger in a very long time. He could only hope that would continue to hold true. "Very well," he said, tight-lipped and obviously agitated despite his collected facade. "I see she has completed her sim. It might be time to get her before she goes off chasing her phantom again."

Delacourt touched her wrist comm, syncing it with the PA system in order to speak to her niece. "Lorelei, _ma Cherie, _it's time to go. Come up here; we're leaving now."

Below them, Lorelei looked up, raised her arms triumphantly, and smiled, as if to say, _Look, I did it!_

"That's very good. Leave the gun behind. Don't even think about sneaking it home the way you did last time. You nearly gave poor Amelie a short-circuit."

Smith glanced at the Defense Secretary sideways. That bit was apparently news to him, though the smirk on his face told her he wasn't the least bit surprised. "Remember what I said," he said softly. "Tiny drops of water to wear down that mountainside, Jessica."

"I'll try not to think of my niece as a mountainside," she answered wryly as Lorelei made her way up the staircase and to them on the platform. "Tomorrow, same time? You're headed home now too, I believe?"

For a man who was chronologically pushing two hundred, Agent Smith was working awfully long days, shadowing Lorelei from dawn until dusk on most of them. However, as a Gen 1, he had the gifts of patience, endurance and fortitude to go along with his already strong constitution, and he had never once complained. "I am. I'll be sure and meditate on what I can do to help her along. Sadly, though, I never learned to sing or dance. You'll have to find someone else for that, I'm afraid," he joked, gathering his jacket and pulling it on.

"Someone else for what, Mr. Smith?" Lorelei had joined them, panting. She wore the smallest size tunic and pants available in the training center, which was still much too large; the effect was always comical. With her sleeves rolled up and feet stuffed into boots, she looked as if she were auditioning for a CCB agents' panto night. Garrett Smith tried not to smile.

"Your aunt and I were just talking about how well you did in there with that pistol. And how it might be time for you to learn rifle as well," the big man said, deliberately poking the elder Delacourt's sensibilities now but knowing how much it would please the girl.

The look Jessica shot him said _We'll discuss this in our conference tomorrow_ wordlessly.

"Wow. That is so cool," Lorelei exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Then, remembering her formal manners, she added, "I mean, thanks, Mr. Smith." She bowed from the waist as he had taught her, and he did likewise.

"We'd better head out, _cherie," _Delacourt said stiffly, stepping in and desperately trying to change the subject from anything martial. "I had Henri prepare that ratatouille you always liked," she told Lorelei.

"But I wanted meat," the girl protested. "Can't we have that lamb dish again?"

Delacourt looked to Smith as if to ask, _You see what I have to deal with? _"Very well. I'll call ahead and see what he can come up with," she acquiesced, tapping her comm and remembering Smith's advice to let things go.

"That sounds so _lekker_!" Lorelei squealed in delight. When the adults stopped, stared at her, then each other, she frowned. Lorelei wasn't used to seeing either of them at a loss for words. "Did I say something bad?" she asked hesitantly.

"No. It's just…" Delacourt picked her next statement very carefully. "Wherever did you hear that word?"

"I dunno." Lorelei studied her boots. "On TV, maybe? Or a movie?" She fidgeted; at this age she was in near-constant motion. "Can we go? I'm really hungry after all that."

"Yes, we'll go." Delacourt turned to Smith and politely shook his hand. "Thank you for everything, Garrett. I'll see you tomorrow." She yawned. "Another day awaits. No rest for the wicked."

"Always, Jessica." He returned the handshake and smiled. To Lorelei, he said, "I'll see you bright and early, Miss Delacourt. Get a good night's sleep and eat your vegetables."

It was there for just a split second, but Smith noticed: when he mentioned sleep, an involuntary shudder, and flinch of the eyes, passed across Lorelei's face. As she and her aunt departed, he waited a moment more on the now-deserted platform overlooking the sim.

"Replay," he ordered the VR construct tersely through his own comm. "Show me what she was chasing."

As with all the technology on the torus, the response was near-instantaneous. The hooded figure before him was vaguely defined, and appeared to be more wraith than solid flesh, but Smith would know the picture of Kruger anywhere. Lorelei had been chasing him again. And her mind was stitching even more details on what had once been a blank canvas. That disturbed him to the core; he would have to have a word with Perine.

"That's enough," he snapped, and the holo disappeared. The ramifications were dire, and he needed time to meditate on them.

_If Lorelei is seeing Kruger more and more, how is that even possible? Why hasn't she told me about it? And, for God's sake, what in the world is that doing to her mind?_

Still, he had to smirk even through his disturbed state. The girl hadn't figured out that the sim was rigged against her. Yet.

_To Be Continued_


	2. I Hate Myself For Loving You

**Chapter 2**

As the sleek aircar shot toward home, Jessica Delacourt sat quietly, waiting for the right moment to try and break the ice. The girl before her could be as unpredictable as the massive hurricanes that regularly ravaged coastal cities on Earth. So much about her niece's development post-Incident had been chaotic and random, though her own efforts, as well as Garrett and Perine's, to restore order and regularity seemed to be bearing at least some fruit_. At least she's not mute anymore, or having those horrible screaming fits._

For the time being, Lorelei likewise said nothing; she sat with her face pressed to the window, looking out into the darkening artificial twilight over the immaculate lawns and mansions. "Are you mad at me?" she asked softly without making eye contact, and for a second, her aunt didn't realize she was being spoken to.

Jessica was taken aback by the question. If she wanted to answer honestly, yes, there were inordinate things to be angry about when it came to Lorelei. The girl's rebellious streak, which had been amusing enough when she was younger, was now a festering thorn in her aunt's side. Fights at school, talks with alarmed parents of classmates, and covering up Lorelei's borderline-illegal hacker pranks had all become regular items on her agenda. But she remembered Garrett Smith's urgings, and delicately reined in her irritation. "I'm not mad at all, _cher_,_" _she said all too unconvincingly. It was difficult enough not to turn up her nose at Lorelei's worn CCB fatigues, tangled blonde hair, and sweaty skin. _She should be wearing a designer dress, or at the very least, her school uniform. Not that dirty old thing. _She forced a smile anyway. "Did you…have fun in your sim today?"

"It's not supposed to be fun. I'm supposed to be learning. That's what Mr. Smith keeps telling me." Still, no eye contact.

That was something else which deeply troubled Jessica: Lorelei had once been a vivacious, outgoing, loving child who had never met a stranger. The girl who'd emerged in recent years was still puckish in her own way, yet had turned uber-serious, like she was fighting battles much more intense than learning Rostand plays or Beethoven sonatas. Jessica had known for a long time now that there was something her niece never told her…or anyone else, for that matter. Something that troubled her so deeply as to make her climb up on the roof at night or seek other forms of private solace. Whatever dark secret it was, no one had been able to extract it yet. "I'm glad you and he are getting on so well," Jessica said, deftly changing topics. "How was your session with Dr. Roi-Schultz today?"

Lorelei's nose wrinkled. That had always been one of her unique tells when she didn't like something or someone, and she had never bonded with her therapist the way she had Agent Smith. "Fine," she answered, vague as always when it came to her counseling. "She showed me a bunch of pictures today and asked me what I thought they looked like. They all looked like ink to me, except for one which sorta resembled Godzilla eating a cow, I guess."

"And what did she say?"

"Nothing, really. She says there are no wrong answers for that kind of test."

_As long as you didn't say "a Raven," or maybe "an Oryx," I suppose I can live with that. _"There aren't," Jessica agreed. She could remember her first psych evaluation with Rohrschach tests; it was strange how such antiquated methods were still used, just like the mountains of physical paperwork coming in and out of the offices. "You look so tired, _cherie_. Perhaps you should get to bed early tonight instead of staying up." She knew she was treading on thin ice here, trying to press the issue with Lorelei, but it didn't matter. _Something _had been happening at night when her niece slept. Jessica was no fool; ten-year-old girls didn't develop dark circles under their eyes for no reason, and they certainly didn't climb out onto a roof if all they were dreaming of was riding unicorns and picking daisies.

Another tell: Lorelei flinched ever so slightly as if a sudden chill had gone through the aircar. "I have to study for my algebra exam and finish _Great Expectations_," the girl said with a shrug, only slightly more convincingly than when she'd informed everyone at the garden party last week how much she loved escargot.

"I see." Jessica regarded her niece carefully. Lorelei had never been much of a liar; her psychological weapon of choice was rather the withholding of information. Lies by omission, as it were. Even so, when Lorelei did get to talking, which was rare these days, the words came out like a gushing torrent, completely uncensored and unrefined. Often she could be harsh or even abusive. Not the kind of genteel language one expected from a young, educated lady descended from Founder Generation stock.

_Just like him. Like Kruger. One drop of poison, it seems, can taint an entire barrel of clean water. I can't ever get him out of my head…_

The aircar had begun its gentle descent, an arc directly above what had to be among the grandest residences in Sector 6: a sprawling but tasteful Mediterranean Revival occupying ten acres. The lights sparkled fantastically now that it was dark, and Delacourt, like her niece, couldn't help but be enchanted by the home the two of them shared. It was a wonderland both she and Lorelei could appreciate together, with its immaculately kept hedge maze, butterfly garden, and Roman-style marble pool, among many other sensory delights. Sadly, though, those times of bonding had been rare as of late. With all her various groundings, Lorelei had spent more time in her room than any other space on the property recently…and that showed no sign of changing any time soon.

Jessica cleared her throat. "Look at that, home already. Why don't you head to your room, get freshened up? I'll see you for dinner at seven thirty."

"Okay. If I get all my homework done, and do my weekly assignments for Mr. Smith and Dr. Perine, can I go back in the sims tomorrow? Please?" Lorelei begged as the vehicle landed softly on the helipad.

That was another thing Jessica had come to understand about the girl, though it was nearly a foreign concept from her own perspective. Positive rewards, not negative reinforcement or punishments, worked like a charm. _No one ever had to force me to study, or to practice what was good for me, or network with like-minded people. Here I am resorting to training my own niece like a dog. _Then she remembered Garrett Smith's statement, and the truth inherent in it. _She is not you. _Just for tonight, she'd let it go. The grime could be washed away, clothes changed, hair brushed…but if Lorelei got in one of her moods, sometimes it might take a day or two to die down. If she was in a good mood, though, the same might be true. "Yes. On one condition: that you inform me exactly when you go, and that Agent Smith knows as well. No more running off. Do you understand, _cher_?"

"Yes, _Tante _Jessica." In that moment, she almost seemed like the old Lorelei, with a bright grin across her little face and a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes. "Race you inside!" Unfastening her safety harness, she bolted out the aircar door, tearing across the lawn, all the while knowing that her aunt never ran _anywhere_ and that she was sure to win.

"Is everything all right, Madame Secretary?" It was Ricard, one of their butler droids, who spoke from his place at the landing pad. His mechanized voice was level as always. His class was individually programmed for each owner's specifications, and, having owned him for years now, she almost imagined she could detect a note of concern. _What am I talking about? He's a droid. That's ridiculous; I'm just tired and upset._

"_Tres bien_," she answered coolly, watching Lorelei beelining her way toward the mansion. The same thought danced its way back across her mind, and she addressed the servant more sternly than she intended to. "Have Henri bring up some of that Pinot from the cellar. The 2008 should do nicely."

~~s~~

The dining room, like every other part of the villa, reflected its owner's personality: elegant, refined, tasteful, not a single item out of place or style. In keeping with the architecture, it had the perfect blend of modern and vintage Mediterranean decor, with a long, exquisite marble and glass table, hand-blown glass chandelier, and a Picasso tastefully framed above the fireplace. In a space large enough to park four aircars comfortably or host a dinner party for a hundred, the fact that it was just the two of them sometimes unnerved Jessica. Yes, there were the nights when Helene joined them, or perhaps a friend or business associate, but those had grown less common as Lorelei's brooding side emerged. No one wanted to have dinner with a girl who might dazzle guests with her wit and charm one night, or, if she was in a bad mood, fling potatoes _au gratin_ at them while giggling maniacally.

Tonight, it was hard to say just what she might be thinking or feeling. Lorelei had been quiet through most of the three-course dinner, devouring her portion of the rack of lamb with gusto following her training session. Jessica watched the girl going at her third helping, and wryly smiled to herself. One thing the designers had certainly gotten right was Lorelei's metabolism. She could eat anything she wanted, and never gain so much as an ounce of unwanted fat. Not every Elysian was so lucky, though the ones that weren't all had med-bays. That was one thing the Founders had all agreed upon: that everyone who could afford to live on the torus should at least look elegant and gorgeous.

"This is so delicious," Lorelei said through a bite of meat. "Can I have some more, please?"

"What did I say about talking with your mouth full?"

"Um…that I shouldn't?"

"_Oui."_ Jessica nodded curtly. Table manners were one more thing that had to be constantly reinforced, along with the other social graces which were such a stumbling block for Lorelei. At least she had changed for dinner, swapping the sweaty tunic and pants for a simple but pretty knee-length indigo swing dress over silver tights with leather Mary Janes. "That color suits you. Brings out your eyes. Perhaps you should wear it more often."

Lorelei grunted and shoved another hunk of meat into her mouth as if to avoid answering. It was difficult for her aunt not to protest: in addition to personally being a vegetarian, just the way the girl ate reminded her far too much of Kruger. _Precisely what I need, a miniature version of that barbarian. Am I being paranoid, or do I just have 32 Alpha firmly on my mind right now? _It wasn't the only trait of his that had insidiously emerged in her over the past few years like some hidden cancer. The fights, the aggression, the moodiness; all were suggestive of Lorelei's unusual heritage. Jessica had fought over it many times with Perine, and the psychiatrist had always insisted that nurture, and not nature, would prove dominant in the end. Five years later, and the Defense Secretary was still waiting.

"I can't wait for next week. Since it's school holidays, Mr. Smith says I can start rifle shooting if I do all my exercises and assignments." Lorelei put down her fork and knife, grinning at the very thought of more time in the sims. "Isn't that cool, _Tante _Jessica?"

She must have been lost in thought; it took her a moment to react. "Oh. How interesting," she said absently, stifling a yawn. "It seems as if you're spending a lot of time there as of late." _When you should be practicing your ballet and violin_, she thought, but held her tongue, still heeding Smith's advice.

Across from her, Lorelei cocked her head curiously. "It's the only thing I'm really good at. Or that I enjoy," the girl explained, digging into the cream custard bowl Ricard set before her.

That part was just half-true. Lorelei was no prodigy, but capable enough at her music and dance lessons; it was rather the fact that she chose to ignore practice in favor of getting sweaty and dirty playing games which Jessica had never understood. She sighed deeply. _I've been too lenient with her. I know I can't shadow her all the time…that's why I hired Agent Smith…but she should be learning the right kinds of skills. One day she'll hopefully be doing _my_ job, or at the very least, an upper-level CCB position. She's not going to be out shooting at terrorists and crawling in mud-holes. For God's sake, she's a young lady_. _It's time she started learning to behave like one._

"Mmph." Lorelei looked up from her custard bowl; she'd devoured the entire dessert in seconds. "May I please have some more? That is so yummy."

"I think that's enough for one night, _cher_. You know what happens when you eat too much before bedtime. Everything in moderation."

"Okay. But there'll be leftovers tomorrow, right?" The servant droids were clearing away the dishes and uneaten food as Lorelei licked her lips.

Jessica took a deep breath. This seemed as good a time as any to have the long-delayed heart to heart with her niece; Lorelei had eaten a full meal of all her favorites and held onto the promise of going back to her beloved war-games. It had been a Good Mood night for a change. "I suppose there will. Now, before you head off to your room to finish your homework, there's something I've been meaning to speak with you about. Henri, Ricard, _allez_."

"Oh no…what did I do this time?" Lorelei gulped, nervously watching the droids leave the room. She knew from experience that when her aunt started speaking French, nothing good ever became of it. Usually it preceded some lecture about minding manners or not fighting in school, though she hadn't had any infractions in two weeks or so. In her chair, she squirmed uncomfortably.

"You've done nothing wrong," began Jessica reassuringly. "I don't want you to think I'm the bad guy, _mon couer_. Just because I'm showing concern, and love for you, doesn't make me your enemy. Agent Smith cares about you too, and so does Dr. Roi-Schultz. But they are not your family. I am, and I want what's best for you. Do you understand that?" she said as gently as she could, bracing for the backlash that was sure to come.

"Um…I guess so," Lorelei mumbled, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else at that moment, a little animal caught in a trap and hearing a hunter's footsteps. "I didn't mean to make you mad."

Jessica shook her head vehemently. "I'm not mad. What I'd like you to try and see from my perspective. I think it's wonderful that you're doing so well in your self-defense training. It's an important skill. However, a well-rounded person has many skills, and she needs to work on all of them. Think of our torus, our home. What would happen if we put all our effort and resources into just one sector at the expense of the others? Where would that leave the rest of the habitat?"

Lorelei was looking down again, little face drawn into a very Kruger-like scowl. "Mr. Smith says I'm really good at shooting. He says I might even be an agent someday if I keep it up," she stubbornly insisted, ignoring the question. "Why do I need to take stupid ballet lessons if I'm going to do that?"

"Because," said Jessica, steadying her rising temper and giving herself a mental reminder to chastise Agent Smith for putting such wild ideas in the girl's head, "that's just one possibility. Your whole life is ahead of you, Lorelei. I only want to help you succeed." _A few years from now, God willing, I'll be preparing you for possible suitors, and it's never too early to start the process. _"Don't you ever think about anything other than those sims? Meeting some new friends, maybe?" Her frustration was starting to seep through the cracks of her icy composure.

"I _have_ friends, _Tante _Jessica. I've got Mr. Smith, and Esme, and Anila," replied Lorelei confidently. "Not like you. You're always too busy working to have any friends."

The retort was made to sting, and it did, instantly finding the weak spot beneath Jessica's many layers of armor. "That's not a kind thing to say, _cher_," she began, but Lorelei cut her off.

"Who cares? It's true. All you care about is your stupid job. You never make time for me anymore…"

"That is not true," said Jessica coldly, "and you have absolutely no idea what I put myself through, while you're having your silly games and pranks, so that you can enjoy safety and comfort. Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself? How others must feel?" She stood up and glared at her defiant niece. The grueling hours, the sleeplessness, the constant worry…all of them had been a long-dormant volcano inside Jessica Delacourt, which had chosen this very moment to erupt. "I have sacrificed so much for you, young lady, and I get nothing but ingratitude in return. Think about that for a moment." Her voice, normally serene and confident, trembled with the fury she felt.

Lorelei likewise stood, as if wanting to leap across the table. Her scowl deepened, twisting the cherubic features into a lupine snarl. "I think about it all the time. Like how you always lie to me?" she spat.

Out of all the things Jessica might have expected her niece to say, it wasn't this. "I have never lied to you, Lorelei, and I'm hurt that you would even say such a thing," she said coolly.

"You did lie to me. About my birthday that one year. I know something bad happened, and you made me forget it, like a memory wipe. I looked it up on my comm pad. Is Dr. Perine in on it too? Or Mr. Smith?" A moment ago, Lorelei had seemed all but ready to attack. Now, tears welled in her blue eyes. "Why won't you tell me? I need to know!"

Instinctually, Jessica wanted to tell her little niece, her last living descendant, the whole truth. How she, and the Project, came to be. Why it was necessary. How they'd tried, and failed, so many times before she, the apex of a hundred years' research, ever came into existence. Right now was just not the time. "You're too young to understand, _cher,_" she said impulsively, and immediately regretted her words.

"That's what everyone always says," Lorelei sobbed, tears of frustration and anger spilling down her cheeks. "You, and Mr. Smith, and Dr. Perine. You all lie to me, I know it. It's like I'm some stupid baby. Well, I'm not a baby!" she shrieked, smacking her little fist on the table. "I can take care of myself and I don't need any of you!"

"Lorelei…"

But the girl had already sprinted out of the dining room, toward her upstairs bedroom, no doubt, crying her eyes out.

Jessica fought back her own tears, but didn't pursue. Every time she thought she was making progress, breaking through to Lorelei's tender emotional center, and the secrets contained within, one of these storms broke. One step forward followed by two steps back. She was not Lorelei's mother, could never be, and yet she'd assumed the mantle out of necessity and her own sense of duty. _Why can I love her so much and yet be infuriated by her? Is this what parenthood is supposed to be? I was raised by nannies. I can arrange multi-billion credit contracts, protect this torus from all harm, negotiate treaties…why can't I be a mother to her without her hating me for it?_

"Ma'am, are you all right?" It was Ricard the butler droid, who'd returned to clear away the now-cold leftover food on the table.

"I'm not sure if I will be or not." She desperately wanted sleep, yet that was impossible knowing she'd sooner or later have to go upstairs and calm down Lorelei. For the first time in a long while, the Defense Secretary was starting to feel her chronological age. _And there's no telling when she'll let me touch her palm again for a restorative treatment. I'll have to make sure to get in a med-bay before the meetings tomorrow. _"Bring me some of that wine, Ricard. I need it." It was no substitute for the woefully fractured mother-daughter relationship, but it was all she had for the moment.

"As you wish."

~~s~~

Lorelei's arms were getting tired.

She swung the wooden _bokken _over and over against the headboard and posts of her king-size bed, battering both the mahogany finish and the weapon itself. This would be the fourth wooden sword she'd cracked in half this month, she realized. It didn't matter; she could get another. Mr. Smith always said she needed to let her anger out, not keep it inside…and this was usually how she chose to do it, by taking her whacks at the furniture, all the while imagining the faces of her aunt, Dr. Perine, or the mean kids in class as she did so.

They just didn't understand. No one did. Well, maybe Mr. Smith did, sometimes. Only he wasn't here right now.

_Thwack. Thwack._

On the nightstand beside her bed, the little stuffed oryx sat patiently, watching her outburst with his one remaining button eye. Lorelei had grown out of dolls and toys for the most part, yet Orson, as she called him, remained. There was something about his musty, threadbare presence that comforted her to no end. Even taking a deep breath against his patchy fur made her more comfortable.

Panting, sweating, Lorelei sank to one knee, making eye contact with the beast. "What are you looking at?" she asked him. "Would you rather I used a real sword? Then I'd cut you up too along with the bed, you know. Make some yummy oryx steaks. Mmmm."

As always, Orson remained silent, though she almost imagined she saw sympathy in that black, shiny eye of his.

She had bolted the door to her room, wirelessly reconfigured the lock so that her aunt would take at least a while to get in, and even shut down Amelie, her attendant droid. Right now Lorelei just wanted to be alone.

With the _bokken _still in hand, she climbed up onto her bed, face up, looking up at the ceiling. She desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, about the true way she felt about the dark man and his nocturnal visits. How she had come to fear and crave them at the same time. The wonderful, terrible feeling that flooded her when his hand met hers. It all had something to do with her fifth birthday, she knew somehow. Dr. Perine might analyze her dilemma to death, Mr. Smith was sure to offer nothing but enigmas, and her aunt?

"She just doesn't get it, Orson. I bet she never had to deal with some strange guy in a cloak coming to see her all the time," Lorelei said out loud, more to herself than the battered toy. "And she wants me to be somebody I'm not. It's always 'don't do that' or 'stop it' with her, or making me take all these classes I hate. I wish she'd just let me…" A deep sigh. "Be myself."

And that was the darkest, deepest part of her fantasy, the one she'd never told anyone else. _The boogeyman actually understands me. When he touches me like that, it's like everything is okay, and I feel better, like I was meant to do that. That is so weird, and creepy…didn't adults always tell me not to talk to strangers?_

It was getting late, and Lorelei didn't feel the least bit tired despite a long day at school, a training session afterward, and a solid fifteen minutes swinging the wooden sword. Besides, if she went to sleep, _he _might show up. She shuddered with a curious mixture of dread and eager anticipation.

She needed to burn off the nervous energy somehow. That was one thing Mr. Smith had taught which Lorelei had come to greatly appreciate: when you were too busy being active, the mind could not be occupied with excess worry or fear. Hopping off the bed, she paced, still holding the splintered _bokken._

_ I could do some more exercises. I could climb out on the roof…but I might get caught, and _Tante _Jessica would be even more mad at me. Or…_

A thought struck her. Rummaging in the messy drawer underneath where Orson sat, Lorelei dug around, looking. She pulled out the old model Dragonfly pad, the one she'd stashed away years ago. Her aunt regularly had to confiscate the girl's beloved hacker equipment, yet somehow this one had gone unnoticed, perhaps because it was so obsolete. "I know just who I can talk to. I just hope he's around," said Lorelei, booting up the device and hearing its familiar start-up chime. Years ago, in the hospital, she'd found a scrap of paper with a string of numbers on it…and a name. J.F. Drake. After some research, and even more trial and error, she'd discovered it was a comm frequency, though an unusual one. The first time Lorelei had simply texted a message (_Hello, my name is Lorelei Delacourt, and someone gave me this code)_ to the set of numbers, and waited.

The response had been nearly instant. Though J.F. Drake, whoever he or she was, had insisted on anonymity, they had corresponded semi-regularly. It was like having a pen pal, of sorts; that was how Lorelei thought of it. She'd told the mystery person about her school, her cares, her worries, even her deep fear of the boogeyman. Her aunt, of course, would have grounded her for life had she known about the connection. That was why Lorelei had kept it such a closely-guarded secret. She liked to think her secret friend was some kind of spy, or maybe a sleeper agent on Earth. That had to be why they never went by anything but a last name. So far she had never found anyone named Drake in the CCB or Earth databases…which only intrigued her more.

**Ru arnd? **Lorelei texted rapidly, fingers flying across the screen, **Realy nd 2 talk if ur there.**

And she waited.

Putting down the Dragonfly, Lorelei went doggedly back to work, making every swing count.

_To Be Continued_


	3. Two Jokers, A Knave, and a King

Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay; I have been quite busy. Thanks as always to the Wrecking Kru for their outstanding support. I know the chapter ends sort of abruptly, was gonna make this one but decided on two. **

"You guys will never guess where I am."

Drake felt a little foolish like he always did while essentially talking to thin air; the wrist comm was recording a holo even as he spoke, and the result would be sent home through an encrypted channel. This had become a tradition of sorts, though, and he was determined to continue it. Besides, the kids absolutely loved the things. He forced a broad grin and continued.

"Once upon a time, this was the tallest building in the world. Look it up on that Project-a-Pal toy of yours if you like, eh? I know it's not the tallest anymore, there's the one in Singapore and that other one in Frankfurt, but…"

He looked down. It would be a hell of a long way to fall. Good thing he didn't plan on falling.

"…anyway, I'm getting off track here. It's still damn impressive. The torus is so bright. I can't tell you _exactly_ where I am now, you know the rules, right? I should be home within the next week, and when I do, I've got some amazing surprises for you all."

That was always fun, picking out gifts for the kids. For most of his life, Drake had wondered if children were strictly for other people, who didn't get shot at for a living. Now, he couldn't imagine feeling complete without them, even if he saw his offspring all too infrequently.

"Listen, I gotta keep this short. You be good, and help your mother. Stay out of trouble. Eat all your greens." That last part was at Rina's insistence; he hated the stuff himself. "I'll see you soon." He pressed the button to end the transmission.

Though it was well into the night, and he'd just completed a bitch of a week-long assignment in South Yemen, Drake wasn't the least bit tired. At least not for the moment. That was what happened whenever he let Crowe, or worse, Tselios, pick the clubs. They wanted to party nonstop, and that required a second wind.

Dubai was a city that demanded second…and third, and fourth…winds. This particular spot, the Jannat al-Adn, was exclusive, high-end, nearly impossible to get into, and popular with nearly every CCB agent who'd ever lived. Meaning, on a Saturday night such as this, it was jam-packed. The club occupied several of the highest penthouse levels of the Burj Khalifa tower, where Drake's three-man crew had checked in for the evening. He hadn't lied in his message; the skyscraper, while no longer the tallest on Earth, was nothing to sneeze at either. Right now he stood on a balcony just over 600 meters above the ground far below. Though he'd never been the least bit afraid of heights, Drake had to remind himself of this sobering fact.

_Too bad I'm not the least bit sober. Why the fuck would I come here if that's what I meant to do?_

He'd lost count of how much, and what kind of, intoxicants he'd ingested sometime earlier in the evening. This was no hole-in-the-wall in a remote outpost; there was nothing but the finest shit here. It was a fucking buffet of whatever you fancied: uppers, downers, any brand of alcohol known to mankind. High-roller parties all night long, insanely gorgeous, scantily clad women working the floors. The perfect place to visit after a week's worth of hell in the baking sandbox of southern Arabia. Drake smiled to himself. Rina would absolutely kill him if _she_ knew where he was right now.

_That's the beauty of it…she doesn't have to know, does she? It's not like she doesn't have fun on her own when I'm away. Heh._

Drake secretly missed her. She was the best cook he'd ever met…her beef stew was simply to die for…and an excellent, natural mother. Just the thought of her made him click at his wrist comm again. He absently scrolled through the few personal photos he kept on it until he found the one he was looking for: his wife, dusky and beautiful in one of her comfortable patterned sundresses, sitting with their small children in the garden, behind their home in Jozi.

"There you are, boss. You're missing all the fun, you know?"

Crowe, clearly drunker than he looked, lurched out of the beaded curtain divider onto the balcony. In one hand he held an enormous beer mug, and in the other, some gaudy silver Mardi Gras beads he must have taken from one of the cocktail waitresses. He wore his civvies and the kind of shit-eating grin he always got after about five drinks.

"Just getting some fresh air," said Drake. He always felt a little embarrassed about recording his messages home, like it was something he needed to do in private. Even so, he had needed to breathe something other than smoky haze for a few minutes. His men could smoke all they wanted…he didn't give a shit…but the stuff had always made him personally slightly nauseous.

"Ja, boet." Crowe belched and pointed to the holo image. "That the wife and kids there? They're taller every time I see 'em. Kids, I mean."

Drake grinned; even a drunk had to notice something like that. "Jacko's starting school this year. Can you believe that? Five already. Seems like just yesterday he was still in nappies. He's so good with the techie stuff.; picks it up like second nature. Vivy's not far behind. She's a good girl, smart, a lot like her mum. Just as stubborn, too."

"Isn't there a third one now? You and Rina sure been keeping busy," Crowe said, making an obscene gesture with his fingers.

"Tommy. Yeah, he's almost ready for his first steps. Not talking yet, but she says the little bugger's started trying to hump the dog while crawling."

"Just like his dad, eh? A natural-born pervert."

Both agents shared a hearty laugh.

"I still can't believe she's mine," Drake said almost dreamily, looking up at the unusually clear sky through the heat shimmers. Well after midnight, and it was still scorching.

"Who? Rina?" Crowe made another dirty sign, and winked. "I can; you were hopeless from the first time you walked into her place, boet."

"No. The ship," said Drake, and pointed out the landing platform where his pride and joy was currently moored. That had been part of the reason he'd come outside, just to check on her. There were dozens of high-end aircars and shuttles, along with a few military-grade gunships, in and around the Burj Khalifa's hovering docks, but only one _Rook_ ship on this particular night. With his night-vision enhancing implants, Drake could see her clearly even in the darkness: her sleek, lethal form, the custom paint job with the leaping deer silhouette on one side. If the _Raven-_class had been outstanding, these were superlative. "What'd I do to deserve her?"

Both of them secretly knew the answer, though they never openly discussed it. When Secretary Delacourt decided to reward an agent for good service, she never used half measures. Drake and Crowe, in the weeks following the Kgosi Incident five years ago, had found themselves not just in possession of more credits than they knew how to spend, but reassigned to a newly formed Oryx unit with Drake in command. "I saw potential," the Defense Secretary had said tersely when they'd pressed her. It was what went unsaid that told the rest of the story.

_I saw two men who, much as I hate to admit it, saved my niece's life. And I had to find some reasonable, underhanded way to repay that debt._

"I think you're a good boss, Boss," Crowe said thickly, his voice slurred by whatever he'd been drinking.

Whether or not that was true, Drake himself didn't know. Along with Crowe and their new gunner, Tselios, the Oryx Six squad, as they styled themselves, had carried out dozens of assignments and mostly come out unscathed. He had been told, by agents who were in fact sober, that they were now Delacourt's preferred unit for the nastier assignments, especially the ones in the hotbeds of Africa or the Middle East. Drake and his team operated professionally. He got in, killed or neutralized whoever the brass in the Griffins' Nest told him to, then got out without a hitch. Why did the doubts linger? What was he doing wrong?

That was another truth which generally went unspoken: their erstwhile boss' presence, while it could be overbearing, was sorely absent. And whenever Drake got wasted like this, he waxed nostalgic. "Never thought I'd say this, but I miss working for the mouthy old bastard," he mused.

Crowe hardly needed to ask who he meant. "Kruger? Really, boet? You're still thinking about him?" The pilot laughed. "'Course, nothing wrong with that. He's one oke who's hard to fucking forget. 'I just can't quit you' and all that _kak_."

"You can say that again." It was the worst-kept secret in the world; both of them missed the embodiment of unpredictable volatility that was their former boss, not to mention his twisted sense of humor, uncanny ability for sniffing out trouble, and knack for telling filthy stories at parties. Once in a while they ran into him at a place like this, yet Crowe and Drake hadn't been assigned back to the _Raven _in five years. That had been Delacourt's doing too. Maybe, Drake guessed, she wanted to keep the original Oryx Squadron apart to try and prevent another Incident from happening. It had all been an anomaly, though, one out of thousands they had run together. That particular mission had gone so horribly awry because…

_Because of the girl. If she hadn't run away from home, none of that would have happened. Would it?_

Drake still thought about it almost every day, second- and third-guessing himself. Lorelei may have been a Delacourt, with all the weight and implication that name carried, yet he'd come to genuinely like the girl. That was the one dark secret no one, not even Crowe, not even Rina, knew about. His correspondence with her via the back-door channel. It was risky, for sure, since the CCB had doubled down on virtual security ever since the Incident. It seemed to be working much in the same way Lorelei was being kept safe now: hidden in plain sight. Black ops teams like Drake's were strictly off the record. So were their communiqués. At least for now, both of them had managed to keep the exchanges secret, in part thanks to the girl's extraordinary ability at covering up her electronic tracks. The thing that really killed him was the fact that he couldn't reveal his true identity. _Oh, well, at least the little meisie has somebody she can talk to. And boy, does she…_

"…and, I mean, the way he used to smoke, you know, five fucking cigs at once. Remember that?" Crowe slapped him hard on the back, interrupting his thoughts. Apparently the pilot had been Kruger-reminiscing all the while Drake was thinking of Lorelei.

"Yeah." Drake brought himself back to the present moment, which was difficult considering all the shit he'd done tonight. His head swam. "That voice of his, boet. Like nails on a chalkboard even without the cigs, wasn't it?" Kruger's reedy, harsh timbre had never ceased to amuse Crowe and Drake, though they never would have dared say so to his face. "Gotcha now, _boytjie_!" Drake made his deep voice half an octave higher for a passably coarse imitation.

It was all Crowe could do not to lose himself in a fit of giggles; while drunk, he always had the stupidest, girliest laugh. "That's fucking hilarious, boet!" he said through gales of laughter, dropping the beer mug to shatter.

Drake couldn't help himself; he joined in too. Maybe it was the MDMA or whatever trendy lab-made stuff was going around, but the giddiness had him fully by the balls. "Okay, how about another one?" He cleared his throat and mimed drawing an imaginary katana. "We can do this the hard way, or the easy way, girl. Though I'd prefer the fucking hard way, eh?"

If anyone had walked onto the balcony at that moment, or flown by in an aircar, they would have seen two burly CCB agents rolling around in hysterics on the floor, howling like a pair of amped-up hyenas. "Fuck me, Drakey. You need to get your own Vegas comedy show!" Crowe hooted.

"If…if I didn't already have the wife and kids, I might just do that." Even through the euphoric haze he always got going during an all-night party, Drake's thoughts drifted back to Rina and his growing family. _She knows every time I go out, it might be the last. That's what she married. Still, who says I can't have a little fun when I'm off the clock? _

"Good thing he's not here to hear you. If he were, he'd chop your balls off and make you eat 'em, boet." Crowe was wiping tears from his blue eyes.

Drake picked himself up from the floor, and with as much remaining dignity as he could muster, staggered over to the table on the balcony and took a swig of his own half-empty beer. "Yeah, good thing." Kruger had always been the type of guy who loved a good joke…as long as it wasn't on him. Some brash cartel lieutenant in Colombia had made the mistake once of poking fun of the boss' accent and mannerisms to his face. _Jesus, that was a long time ago. _Kruger had been especially inventive with him, using a full compliment of fireplace tools, all fresh from the flames, all inserted into various bodily cavities. Through the screams of agony, Drake could have sworn the little fucker had been trying to apologize.

The truth was, Drake still felt a little strange being called 'boss' by anyone, even after five years. It wasn't that he lacked the experience, or the know-how, for the job. He'd brought his new Oryx team in and out of dozens of missions, in the worst places on Earth, with only minor injuries. Crowe was as solid as ever despite his quirks, and Tselios had proven just as capable. The doubt persisted anyway, a parasite determined to slowly kill its host body.

_You can never get me out of your head, _boytjie_, _Drake could almost hear Kruger's raspy hiss in his ear, as if the man he still thought of as 'boss' were standing right behind him, whispering salaciously. Maybe he was; that damn stealth cloak hadn't been destroyed after the Incident. For all Drake knew, Kruger was listening right now, eavesdropping and waiting for the right moment to jump out from under the cloack and yell 'Boo'. It would be just like him to go and do something like that. "What do you think he's doing now? The boss, I mean?" he asked Crowe, trying to both change the subject and get someone else's perspective on the matter, even if that someone else was shit-faced drunk.

"No idea. Same _kak_ we are, probably." Crowe joined him at the table, leaning heavily against it. "I saw him taking off at that one club in Kyoto a few months ago. You were out with Tselios and I was there watching the ship. Dunno if he saw me, he probably did, but he looked pretty pissed about something." The bald man frowned. "He had a couple new guys with him, too. That huge blond Scandinavian oke with the funny name? I think he's flying the _Raven _now. The fucker. Not that I don't like your ship, boss."

Drake nodded, ignoring the slight. "Hornqvist? Something like that?" He searched his memory, a difficult proposition at the moment. "Everybody called him 'Horny,' which he couldn't stand. I remember him from the academy. Good fighter, pretty smart, just no sense of humor. Like a fucking iceberg, eh? Who's the other?"

"Oh. Didn't recognize him; some buzz-cut guy, also huge. Must be their new gunner."

"So what d'you think the boss was pissed off about?" asked Drake, knowing the question was probably rhetorical.

A dark chuckle from Crowe. "No telling, boet."

Offhand, Drake knew of a few times he'd seen Kruger in a relatively good mood. The times they used to go to Rina's, when she was still in the business. The occasions they went up to his house on Elysium for a _braai_ party or a World Cup match, then sat up all night telling the dirtiest stories imaginable. And…he grasped desperately for some hidden memory…something else that made Kruger happy, too. It was to do with the girl, with Lorelei.

_Fuck it, I'm not taking all this shit next time. I can't think straight._

"Anyway, I haven't talked to him, if that's what you mean. He's not the kind of oke who writes fucking letters or holos, you know." Crowe shrugged and pointed to the beer bottle. "You gonna finish that, boet?"

"No. All yours."

As Crowe pulled at the warm dregs of the lager, Drake looked up one more time at the ship, his _Golden Hind. _She was still there. Good. Still, the thought that he was missing something much more important loomed at the back of his hazy brain.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, gentlemen," came a feminine voice from behind them. It was one of the waitresses, a stunningly lithe raven-haired woman in a gold minidress, stilettos, and not much else. "You're with Agent Tselios, right?"

Drake immediately felt a surge of panic through the cobwebs; their new gunner, while almost too good at his work in the field, could be a wild card when it came to off-duty time. "That's right. Is he okay?" he asked the girl, picturing Tselios passed out in a puddle of his own vomit in one of the toilets.

"I…I think you'd better come with me," she said nervously. "We'll head down to the club; you can see for yourself."

"Shit," Drake muttered under his breath, beckoning to Crowe to come with him. "What's that crazy fucker gotten himself into now?"

"Who cares? It's probably nothing, just more of his usual _kak_," Crowe slurred, stumbling toward the beaded curtain. "At least we can go inside and get some more beer, eh?"

As the two of them hurried downstairs, Drake didn't notice that his wrist comm was blinking **Message Received, Private Sender.**

~~s~~

_Twenty Minutes Earlier_

"…so this chick, see, she walks in on me in the bathroom, and I'm using one of them electric hair dryers to blow myself, right?"

Agent C.M. Kruger was holding a rapt court. Half a dozen agents, including his two teammates, were gathered around the table, along with several of the floor girls who were listening so intently to him they'd momentarily forgotten to deliver drinks to customers.

"And then she asks me, 'What are you doing there?' She wasn't too fucking pleased when I said, 'Heating up your dinner, sweetheart.'" He grinned.

The reaction, as he'd expected, was immediate and raucous. Everyone roared with laughter, and even Kruger chuckled at his own joke. His skills as a raconteur had become the stuff of legend among the CCB. Some of the guys preferred to sit at his table all night rather than enjoy the many other delights the Jannat al-Adn had to offer: the girls, the rooftop pools, the casino, the cornucopia of available narcotics. This last was something Kruger particularly sought out at the clubs.

He had already done several lines of coke tonight, and craved yet more. Sure, there was newer, and even more potent, stuff to be had at these places. Kruger liked to stick with what he already liked…and the strains they had at these high-end clubs were always the best. Not to mention, it was all free. _I gotta hand it to the CCB; they show their best employees a lot of fucking appreciation._

"That was sooo funny!" giggled the girl sitting closest to him. She was, like all the other females present, not wearing much other than a drunk smile. Blonde, stunning body, perfectly arched eyebrows over dilated green eyes. She placed her hand flirtatiously on Kruger's forearm. "You know any other funny jokes?"

"Ja." He leaned in as if to kiss her. "I'm sitting across from one right now."

It took her a moment to pick up on it, but when she did, she giggled even more hysterically. "You are a riot! Oh, my God."

"Yeah, I suppose I am."

More laughs, even from the men. On any other night, Kruger might have followed such a nice piece of ass to her suite, fucked her all night long, enjoyed himself, woken up with no regrets the next morning. Looking her up and down right now, he just couldn't concentrate. For an instant, just then, when she'd touched him, his mind had wandered.

_Am I gonna get that golden thread from her? Fuck, I'm craving that right now._

There were so many things Kruger got cravings for sometimes. Mostly, he could get a fix at one of these exclusive clubs: women, drugs, booze, any brand of cig he wanted. The queen mother of all cravings, though, could only be found in one place. It was risky as hell getting it…the last few times, he'd have sworn he was being watched…but oh, was it worth the risk. Standing there, his hand almost tenderly taking the sleeping girl's in his own-it always had to be when she slept, because of the security around her-and the feel of that elated, orgasmic,soul-shaking thrill coursing through his body…

No cocaine or any other drug could match that sensation. Kruger wanted it. _Needed _it. Had sought it out for five years now, and still couldn't get enough. The golden thread, at least for tonight, was far away. There were other delights to be sampled. He'd just have to find another way to scratch that pesky itch.

"Another round, girl," he ordered the drunk blonde.

"I don't actually work here. I came in with Agent…what was his name? she slurred, hiccupping.

"Just get us some more fucking beers, eh? Castles."

"Okay, okay," she muttered, and as she walked away serpentine, Kruger thought it must be a miracle she didn't trip over her five-inch heels. _Not a bad view, either. I might have use for her yet._

Kruger's squad mates, who also sat at the table, handed her their empties. He'd observed, over five years, that the two of them-Hornberg, the stoic Swedish pilot, and Petrov, the even quieter Belorusian gunner-were good listeners, but hesitated to join in on the fun off-duty. It was like they were afraid of stepping on his toes somehow. Not that he blamed them. They'd heard the stories through the CCB agent grapevines about what always happened to Oryx Squadron members who talked too much.

_Besides, I fucking hate it when someone else upstages me. _

Despite his lingering high from the last line, Kruger was sharply observant of his surroundings. He noticed everyone who came and went from the smoky room. One of the guys, a tall, rangy type with the manner and bearing of a cocky, newly minted agent, had been watching him steadily from across the table for a few minutes now. Dark hair styled in an elaborate faux-hawk, lots of colorful tattoos down both muscular arms, the kind of scruffy beard that spoke to not being able to grow one properly.

_He's no trouble…he's just a fucking kid, for Christ's sake…but he's looking at me like a dog looks like a thick steak. What the fuck does he want?_

"Enjoying the view?" Kruger stretched out to his full, lean height, putting his booted feet up on the table and his arms behind his head. "I got something you can snack on if you're hungry, _boytjie_."

"No, it's just…" The guy's accent was South African, to Kruger's great surprise, with a hint of something else underneath. _Greek, maybe_? "You're Agent 32 Alpha. I've heard about you. You're a fucking legend, man."

Everyone, including the stone-faced duo of Petrov and Hornberg, chuckled at that.

"You want a fucking autograph or something?"

"Better." The kid stood…he was taller than Kruger by at least a few inches, thicker too. "I hear you're a hell of a fighter. Want to go down to Level 119 and hop in the ring? Just for fun, eh?"

_Either this kid has a death wish, or he's fucking insane. _"You got balls, I'll give you that." Kruger grinned. "You gotta make it fucking interesting, though. What's your name, anyway?"

"Tselios." The other flashed a smile with several gold-capped teeth. "I got the perfect stakes in mind…"

_To Be Continued_


	4. Putting The Band Back Together

Chapter 4

**Author's Note: My apologies for not getting to this sooner. As always thanks to the Wrecking Kru for their support.**

Every one of the exclusive CCB clubs Drake had visited over the years had its own unique delights, but most of them had a number of the same features. Breathtakingly gorgeous female staff, infinity pools with stunning light shows, all the premium food, alcohol and drugs a man could ask for…and almost always, a cage-fighting area.

The Jannat al-Adn was no exception. This particular fighting arena, in deference to the comparatively conservative local culture, was more discreetly located than some, but no less active. Through his drunken haze, Drake tried to remember where it was. Level 109, maybe? _Something like that_, he thought as he hurried along as fast as his wobbly legs would allow, Crowe following close behind him. He decided to ask one of the waitstaff droids just to be sure.

"'Scuse me. You wouldn't know where the cages around here are, would ya, boet?" he said, vaguely aware of how slurred his words had become. _Maybe Rina's right…maybe I can't hold my liquor like I used to._

"Of course, sir. Level 119. The lift will take you," the droid answered politely in its neutral voice, tilting its metallic head slightly sideways. "Are you quite all right?"

Drake nodded even if he felt anything but all right. He was drunk and one of his men was, in all likelihood, up Shit Creek without a paddle. "Yeah. Just point me," he ordered, instinctively knowing Tselios was either beating the shit out of someone, or else getting the shit beaten out of _him. _The kid had plenty of balls, just not a lot of self-control or common sense. _Just like me when I was that fucking young and stupid. It's a miracle he's only been shot once on the job._

The two of them followed the corridor where the droid had indicated, nearly having to lean on each other for support. Nobody paid the pair of agents much attention; they were recognized by only a few of the regulars, who were likely just as drunk and high as they were. That was the whole point of coming to a place like this: to leave your troubles behind and forget the fact that you'd be going into another death trap sometime in the very near future.

"_Jesus_,_" _Crowe swore under his breath as they reached the lift. He held his palm over the pad to summon the car. "I'm not gonna remember any of this tomorrow, eh?"

"I seriously fucking doubt it," agreed Drake as the high-speed lift arrived with only the softest _ding. "_That's one of the things the boss used to say. 'If you can't remember it, you musta had a fucking great time,'" he said in a feeble Kruger imitation as he stepped aboard.

Crowe laughed and belched all at once. "Oh, yeah! Like your bachelor party, boet," he said, pushing the correct floor button.

"Ja. How'd that go? I can't remember a damn thing about it."

The lift hurtled downward, though the motion was barely noticeable. Beyond the glass, the lights of Dubai's many high-rises and casinos shone like diamond necklaces.

"Seriously?" Crowe looked as playful as his hardened face would allow.

"I think there was a stripper, but that's just an educated guess," said Drake, shrugging.

The big pilot chuckled wickedly. "That was _me, _boet. It wouldn't be exactly right for your fiancée to do the honors, and we couldn't find anybody else on short notice, so the boss talked me into sticking on a blonde wig and a pink extra-large dress, then giving you a lap dance. 'Course," he teased, "I was already so drunk by then I just went with it, you know?"

"Why am I not fucking surprised?" Drake sighed as the car came to a halt at level 119. "You must have made one ugly woman, Crowe."

"I was, but I got a whole case of lager for my troubles. I think. I don't really remember it so much either, you know?" he said with a drunken laugh.

The doors opened to a sea of partygoers. If Drake had to guess, almost everyone in the club had gathered on this level. The fights were either just getting started, or there was a real barn-burner going on at the moment. They'd have to make their way all the way through the crowd just to catch a glimpse of the cage in the far corner.

"You have any idea who the match is?" Crowe asked an agent they both knew by sight, a rangy Canadian named Thorne.

"Yeah, I think it's two of you guys. South Africans, I mean," the other man said, sounding likewise drunk. "See if you can get a good look through this lot. Lots of betting going on if you want some action."

Drake shook his head. "No, not right now." Any other night he'd have eagerly bet on a cage fight…that was half the fun…but tonight he was just here to hopefully stop his impulsive gunner from potentially getting his ass kicked. Thorne's words began to sink in as he and Crowe pushed through the whooping, cheering crowd. Crowe spoke exactly what Drake had been thinking, nearly having to shout to be heard.

"Who d'you think the kid's up against?" There were a number of active, and highly regarded, South African agents in the CCB; black, white, and every shade in between, and almost all of them, Drake and Crowe included, loved to fight. It was a mark of personal pride for both of them that, behind the Americans, they were the largest nationality represented, and frequently requested for the more dangerous missions. Right now, though, that was the farthest thing from their minds.

"Knowing him and his stupid-ass ideas, probably one of them big okes. Like Maluleke, or maybe Bronkhorst," Drake said, mentally picturing two of their colleagues, one black, the other white, and both huge second row guys in every friendly rugby match they played. Back when Drake had still enjoyed a good cage fight, he'd steered clear of both of them despite his own solid, muscular build. During the rugby matches that had become a tradition at their get-togethers, though, he was at least fast enough to outrun them. He winced, thinking of the last time Bronkhorst had tackled him on the field. It had been a few minutes before he'd seen anything but a galaxy of spinning stars.

"Oh, _shit_."

"You can say that again," Drake muttered without looking up, still thinking of his two huge compatriots and how even the tall, rangy Tselios seemed smallish by comparison.

Someone was tugging at his shirtsleeve, and Drake realized Crowe was doing the tugging. "No, not that. Look who it is."

Even from where they stood, a good fifty meters from the enclosed metal octagon, the two figures were unmistakable. One was their new gunner, Tselios, well over six feet and built more like an American football linebacker than a rugger with his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and massive chest. Blood poured from a forehead gash down his angular face and onto his torso, adding even more color to the dozens of tattoos he sported along with his standard metal grafts. He wore only a pair of garish South African flag shorts and his boots, and looked on the verge of collapse, breathing heavily.

The other was C.M. Kruger.

"Holy fuck," Drake swore as the crowd cheered for their former squad leader. "What's he doing here?"

"You know the boss, boet. He never could resist these places."

Though he was chronologically nearing the double century mark, Kruger was every bit frozen in his physical prime, powerful and strong. As Drake and Crowe made their way closer to the ring, it was as if he hadn't changed a bit since they'd last seen him. Same muscular but lean build, deeply tanned skin, and shaggy, bearded head touched with the slightest hint of grey. He wore his favorite old, ratty pair of PT shorts and stood at the ready, beckoning, as if daring the much younger man to attack.

The crowd was going insane, trading bets on comm pads and egging Kruger on in a dozen different languages to finish the challenger off once and for all. Crowe and Drake exchanged a quick look. They knew better; they'd seen the same scenario played out many times before. _The boss likes to play with his food, _the shared glance said. _He's just getting started._

Kruger didn't fight in the arena as often as he used to, but he still knew how to play up to his audience and put on a brilliant show. As Tselios wheezed in one corner, the older man strutted, raising his arms over his head to engage the patrons. "Is that all the little _boytjie_'s got, you think?" he asked rhetorically, making an obscene gesture.

It wasn't lost on Tselios, who roared in humiliation and anger, charging Kruger. The move was so clumsy, like a lumbering bear's, that Kruger easily sidestepped and leg-whipped his opponent as he passed, dropping him with an thick _oof!_ to the mat.

"You actually think he was stupid enough to challenge the boss?" Crowe asked as the crowd shouted its approval. "Does he even know who he's fucking with?"

"Probably." Drake could remember a time long ago when he was that young and brash, a hammer in a world that seemed to be full of nails that needed pounding. As Tselios absorbed more brutal kicks from Kruger, Drake couldn't help wonder what had changed. Nearly fifty years' service in the CCB, for starters. When you became that intimately acquainted with death, it wasn't something you went looking for voluntarily. _Or maybe it's because I've got a wife and kids now. Boss would probably say I'm getting fucking soft…_

Crowe cheered along with everyone else as the force of Kruger's body, perhaps forty pounds lighter than Tselios', sent the younger man crashing down yet again. "That one's gonna fucking hurt," he said, wincing as if he'd personally felt the blow.

And it would. Drake planned to have a few choice words with his new teammate once both of them had sobered up and regained their senses. As a leader, he knew he'd been more lenient than most, but it just wasn't wise to tempt fate, and there was no worse way to do it then by challenging a Gen 1 agent to a fight. There was a reason guys like Kruger had been alive so long.

"What's the matter, _boytjie_?" Kruger taunted over the prone, battered figure of Tselios. He was clearly enjoying himself; he'd always been a showman and there were no better, more appreciative audienced than the CCB clubs. "Having trouble keeping up with a real man, eh?"

As several knockout Nordic women shouted marriage proposals to Kruger in their native tongue, Drake fought the urge to laugh. Mankind may have changed in so many ways these last hundred years, but some things never did. One of these was the standard _So, I hear you're pretty tough_ come-on in bars around the world. That _had _to have been what Tselios did to get in the ring with the fighting machine that was Kruger.

Tselios staggered to his feet and attempted a knockout blow. On paper, he might have easily dominated the smaller Kruger, but paper didn't matter when you took nearly two hundred years of expertise into account. Kruger's own fist connected with the exposed underside of his opponent's chin, sending him down yet again.

"Boss, you better stop this," warned Crowe, more concerned than excited now. "He's gonna fucking kill himself if he's not careful."

But Drake silently stood his ground, mesmerized by Kruger's fighting ability. Tselios may have been one tough guy, and a capable gunner, but there were lessons he still had to learn, lessons that only came through the school of hard knocks. This was one of them. If it meant Kruger beating him to a pulp, so be it. _I'll make him wait it out overnight before he gets in a fucking med-bay. Then maybe he'll figure out it's a bad idea to mess with Gen 1s_.

The crowd, meanwhile, was lapping it all up. Everyone with a comm was either exchanging bets or instantly sending photos and videos of the bout to their friends on Earth or the torus. Men whooped and screamed, desperate for the match to last longer than a few rounds. One of the gorgeous blondes nearly swooned from the excitement.

_I might see if any of them are interested in some action later on, _Drake thought absently, eyeing the nearest girl even though she was fixated on the combatants. _Rina knows it's just another part of the job…_

Beside him, Crowe reacted along with everyone else to the Muay Thai spinning kick Kruger put on Tselios, a loud _oooh _escaping his lips. He'd always been a fan of the cage fights and had been in more than a few himself. "Did you see that one, boet?" he cried, grabbing yet another drink from a passing waiter droid's tray and swigging at it.

Drake had been too busy eyeing the blonde in the emerald green dress. Besides, he'd seen Kruger fight enough times to last three lifetimes. "He really put the fucking hurt on him, didn't he?" he asked of no one in particular. He wanted Tselios to learn a lesson, but he also needed the kid alive and well for whatever mission they'd draw next.

Nobody was surprised when Kruger launched himself at the woozy, trembling form of Tselios, who'd only begun to rise to one unsteady knee. The legendary 32 Alpha wasn't known for his acts of mercy, though in this case, the sideways kick he smashed into Tselios' exposed jaw almost seemed like one. The bigger man dropped to the mat like a sack of flour and just as unconscious.

The crowd noise had been loud before; now it was deafening. Cheers in a dozen or more languages were heard, along with a few taunts for the loser and more than a few marriage proposals for the winner. The girl Drake had been leering at had somehow removed her lacy thong, which she slingshotted into the ring. Kruger noticed, picked it up, and raised it over his head like a trophy.

"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed the announcer, a squat Saudi, through his auto-mic, "we have our winner!" The device immediately translated the declaration into the native languages of almost everyone present. It wasn't even needed. The patrons had come to see a good fight, and while they hadn't gotten a long one, they had gotten to see the finesse and skill of Kruger, which was better. The victorious agent swaggered, playing to each and every side of the arena.

"I'll see you three later on," he shouted to the thong-thrower and her friends, who all squealed in delight. "Which suite are you in, sweetheart?"

Drake had pushed his way up close to the cage itself, watching with a mixture of amusement and chagrin. He'd almost forgotten Tselios in the process of trying to have a few words with Kruger. _He's got that effect on people. _In between whoops and cheers, he shouted out to his former boss, "Howzit, eh?"

The old familiar slang made Kruger's shaggy head whip around, and when he saw who had spoken, he grinner broadly, exposing those preternaturally white teeth of his. "Drakey! Come to pay your respects?" He had to shout to be heard over the throng of admirers. "What's a fucking ruffian like you doing in a high class place like this?"

He had to laugh; Kruger's sense of humor was as wickedly sharp as ever. "Same thing you are, boss," Drake chuckled; the old habit of deferring to Kruger hadn't gone away. "Enjoying a little R&amp;R."

"It's good to see you, sir," added Crowe, who'd knocked over an entire tray of drinks in his haste to get up close. He nodded in what, in a sober state, might have been deference, but just came off instead like a bobble-head doll gesture.

"So, the two of you and this _poes_," Kruger said, gesturing behind him to the still-unmoving Tselios, who was being attended to by a droid, "you're a team now, right?"

It wasn't a question. Kruger would know perfectly well what had been going on for the last five years. Drake knew that was his way of testing the waters, gathering information. He tried not to stare into Kruger's glinting black eyes. "That's right," he affirmed, "going on, what, five years now?"

"Can't fucking hear ya, boet!"

The crowd noise had only dropped by a few decibels; the momentum fed upon itself. They'd have to get out of this place fast if they wanted to have any chance to revisit old times. "Hey. You got a private room we can use?" Drake asked one of the valet droids adjacent to the ring.

"Of course. I believe the al-Maha suite is free, sir. I'll have it prepared for you immediately."

Kruger had taken a brief moment to strut around the ring once more, basking in the glory and cheers. He lived on that as much as most people lived on water and air. In his shorts and boots, sweating under the lights and grinning maniacally, he was just as Drake remembered him, rugged and ready for anything, even after all this time.

_Some things just never change._

"You got any Castle lager around here?" Crowe asked the droid.

"Of course."

Drake had to smile at that, too. If there was anything that would have put Kruger in an even better mood, it was his favorite beer. "Oh, and one other thing? Make sure our mate there gets up, and that he doesn't get in a med-bay. At least not just yet. Just get him a fucking glass of water or something," he ordered, indicating Tselios, who still hadn't moved. It was gonna hurt something wicked when he woke up, which was the idea.

If droids could have registered any surprise, this one might have. "As you wish," it said neutrally.

"So, where's this al-Maha place? And where's the lager?"

~~s~~

"So, was that your ship I saw parked out there, Drakey? That _Rook _piece of kak?" Kruger leaned back in his plush leather chair, arms clasped behind his head, as relaxed and yet deadly as a tiger in repose. After pushing his way through the throng of fans, he'd changed into a t-shirt, cargo shorts and flip-flops, but still looked ready to hop in the arena for another full ten rounds.

Drake's heart swelled with pride at the very thought of his ship. She'd been his reward of sorts for his role in saving Lorelei, he knew, and he was extremely fond of her. She wasn't the familiar _Raven_, but she was fast, sleek, and had saved his, Crowe's, and Tselios' collective asses more than a few times. "That's her all right," he confirmed, pointing out the floor-to-ceiling windows to where the ship hovered on her mooring pad.

The three of them occupied the plush al-Maha room, twice the size of most people's living rooms even on the torus. Along with the panoramic views of Dubai's skyline, it boasted a holoscreen, Jacuzzi, wet bar, and two attendant droids. At the moment none of these were being used, though, this was simply a chance for catching up, reminiscing, and shooting the shit.

"What did you say you called it? The_ Golden Behind_ or something stupid like that?" Kruger pulled at his third beer, keeping a straight face all the while.

"_Hind. _The _Golden Hind. _You know, like my English pirate ancestor's ship?_" _corrected Drake, forcing down an involuntarily laugh. That had always happened when he'd had too much to drink. He got the giggles, and he talked too much. Some guys got angry, and some, like Tselios, wanted to pick fights. He wasn't one of them. As Rina always liked to point out, he was a happy drunk. "You got the same fucked-up sense of humor you always did, boss."

Crowe sat across from Kruger, stretched lazily out on another of the chairs. "Don't knock that ship, eh? She's not half bad," he said, hiccupping loudly, which prompted more laughter.

The former Oryx squad-mates had been sitting in here for perhaps an hour, speaking of anything and everything except the most obvious and important subject of all. In five years, they hadn't worked together, hadn't spoken much, hadn't even seen each other save for chance encounters on the torus or at clubs like tonight. Every one of them, despite being drunk and high, knew exactly why that was. The fact that no one, including Kruger, had mentioned it, spoke to the strange kinship that had developed over all those decades of working together.

"Still, I'd rather have a _Raven _any fucking day," Kruger was saying, closing his eyes as if to picture his familiar warship. "Even if that Swede I got flying it ain't got any sense of humor like yours, boet," he said to Crowe. "Hell, he hasn't got one at all."

"Thanks, boss. I never thought you noticed," Crowe said proudly.

"I still remember when you put on that wig, dress and heels for Drakey's bachelor party. If that's not a fucking sense of humor, I don't know what is."

Crowe and Kruger both laughed at this, but Drake just frowned. In addition to getting talkative and giddy when drunk, he also became absent-minded. _Something, and I don't mean whatever happened at my bachelor party, is wrong. What the fuck am I forgetting? Some boss I am. _He vaguely remembered the prone form of Tselios, not moving even as the medical droid was nudging him with its mechanical arm. That was it. He'd told the droid to take his gunner to a table and make sure he was okay without putting him in a med-bay. Lesson learned, and all that. In retrospect he regretted it; the younger man had taken a heavy beating, and there was no telling what condition he was in now. Drake cleared his throat.

"Hey, boet," he told Crowe, "why don't you go out and see how the kid is doing?" He always referred to Tselios in those terms even if he had to be at least fifty or so; nevertheless, that made him a baby in CCB agent terms. "Make sure he didn't get back in the arena or some _kak _like that."

"Sure. I'll see what else they got while I'm out there," Crowe said somewhat sarcastically, reluctantly rising from his chair and stretching. "You want me to get Tselios to a med-bay?"

Drake debated for a moment. "Only if he's got a broken jaw or a concussion or something. Otherwise, he needs to learn a fucking lesson. Let him suffer through the night."

Without another word, Crowe left his boss and his former boss alone in the suite.

"He _does _have a broken jaw," Kruger said with a sly wink. "Want to know what else I did to him before you two ever showed up?"

"I'd rather you not say, boss." Drake winced on behalf of his teammate. Kruger was an unparalleled fighter, for sure, and he also loved to humiliate his opponents in creative ways. "You didn't, you know, molest him or anything?"

"He's not my type." Kruger looked almost offended. "I'm surprised he's yours, Drakey. Ugly bastard like that, with all them tatts? And what's he thinking with that pathetic beard of his?"

_God, that's a relief. _"If I had to guess, boss, I'd say he was trying to look like you. He'd never admit it, but you're sort of a hero of his."

"Well, he's fucking failing. Tell him to shave that off." Kruger pulled out a new pack of the cigarettes he'd been smoking the last hour from one cargo pocket, then lit one and took a deep drag. "Ah, that's better," he said, relishing the fresh nicotine hit and closing his eyes in bliss.

Through the windows, the faintest tinge of lighter blue against the deep indigo of the night sky heralded the coming dawn. _How late was it? _Drake wondered. He'd been awake for at least twenty-four hours, not unusual at all for him, but the events of the past week in Yemen, along with the shock of reuniting with Kruger and the beatdown of his teammate, had left him thoroughly exhausted. There was another 24 hours of leave ahead of him, and at least some of that would need to be spent sleeping. He found himself fighting off a cavernous yawn. "You…you don't know where the closest bed is around here, do you, boss?" he asked Kruger drowsily. "Maybe with one of them Scandinavian girls in it?"

Eyes still shut, Kruger shot back, "You're a married man, now, Drakey. What would Rina think of that if she found out?"

"'Lucky Drake,' maybe?" Another yawn.

"You know, boet, you're getting too fucking soft. That's what happens to guys who go for the 'wife and kids' lie. Those two okes I got now, Horny and Petrov, they'd kick your sorry ass from here to Pretoria…"

But Drake hadn't heard this last part, or any of Kruger's outlandish claims that followed. He'd fallen sound asleep atop his chair, mouth wide open and snoring loudly.

Cigarette still dangling from his mouth, Kruger arose from his own chair to crouch beside the form of the sleeping Drake. "Sleep tight, Drakey," he muttered quietly into his former gunner's ear. Despite all the taunts and the ridicule of the _Rook _ship, Kruger felt a huge void where his countrymen used to be on his team. Hornberg and Petrov were model agents, competent in every way, flawless in their execution. And that was just the problem. They were _too _perfect, and besides, they lacked the quirks and character that Kruger had come to expect from his South African teammates. The _Raven _wasn't as much fun anymore. Even the missions had become routine and by-the-numbers.

Kruger knew exactly why that was, why they'd been split up after the Kgosi Incident five years ago. Secretary Delacourt was taking no chances of an encore, and that meant breaking up the brotherhood of the Oryx Squadron. It had been her idea to give Kruger two new solid but boring teammates, and Drake his own command and ship. In those five years, the missions had been routine, the conversations boring, and even the invasions of the torus down. _She may have been a real _teef, _that woman, _he thought, _but she's no fucking idiot either._

A softly flashing green light brought Kruger out of his momentary trance. It was the comlink on Drake's limply dangling right wrist. Curious, as he always had been, Kruger quickly hacked around the password, first guessing Rina's birthday, then Drake's son's, as the string of numbers. _Too predictable. _When he saw that the sender read _Unknown, _he found his curiosity deepened even more. That could only be a top-level member of CCB brass, or else…

Who? Not Rina, surely. And his kids weren't old enough yet to text back and forth. Whoever it was, Kruger saw, flicking through the message history, had been messaging Drake for some time. He pulled up the latest message, and when he read it, his black eyes narrowed.

_Boogyman came 2 see me again last nite. He smells like an ashtray like always. Eeeeew _

This was followed by a "frowning face" emoticon, which was matched only by the grin that appeared on Kruger's bearded face. Pieces fell into place, and he immediately envisioned the picture they created. _Drakey's been keeping a secret, hasn't he?_

"Oh, does he now?" he murmured to himself as if in answer to Lorelei's text message. _This is gonna be fun…_

_To Be Continued_


	5. With Friends Like These

Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Thanks to my readers for their patience. A very special dedication on this one to C., in the hopes that you'll especially enjoy this chapter.**

"Good morning, Miss Delacourt."

Lorelei groaned and pulled up the covers up over her head. She _knew _that voice issuing from her bedside comm. She'd overslept again. That always seemed to happen the morning after an argument with her aunt.

"G'morning, Mr. Smith," she murmured into the device, knowing that ignoring him, or worse, not showing the proper courtesy, would mean extra laps around the track during their training session. "Sorry about that. I'll get changed and meet you at the training center, 'kay?"

One thing she liked about Garrett Smith: he never seemed to get upset, even at her many shortcomings and quirks. "Very well. I'll see you soon," he said, and the transmission ended.

It had been a long eight hours or so since the night previous, even if Lorelei had barely slept. She'd spent the majority of that time sending text after desperate text to her secret pen pal, the mysterious J.F. Drake. He was normally like a guardian angel; someone she could talk to whenever no one else, even Garrett, seemed to understand. He was also the only one she'd continued to talk to about her nighttime visitor (who, last night, had mercifully not shown up.)

Whatever Drake had been doing last night (she often fantasized about his being some kind of secret agent, because he was forbidden to talk about work), it must have been important, because he hadn't responded to her urgent message. That wasn't like him. That left Lorelei only a few options: to take more swings at her bed frame with the wooden _bokken, _brood, then try, without much success, to sleep. Both had left her restless and moody. So it was that she awoke the same way she'd gone to bed the night before: irritable, tired, and without the answers she needed.

_I hope, _thought Lorelei, moving behind her painted Japanese silk changing screen to put on the freshly laundered training garb Amelie had put out for her, _I can get a nap in today. Not with Mr. Smith, but maybe during Madame Gruenewald's class. _She grinned. The Latin mistress' dry lectures would have put anyone to sleep.

As she pulled the soft, loose white tunic over her head, Lorelei thought for a moment of _Tante _Jessica. She would have already left the house, of course, which meant any chance for an apology would have to wait until dinner that night, if not later. Lorelei's days started early, and _Tante _Jessica's began even earlier. She was, as she never tired of pointing out, responsible for the safety of each and every person on the torus. Even Lorelei could appreciate the importance of that, kind of.

Amelie, her attendant droid, entered the room almost soundlessly. Lorelei neither liked nor disliked her. She was a droid, a servant, and although Lorelei had enjoyed some fun with her (_the time I changed her voice to sound like that old Donald Duck cartoon's, now that was great),_ Amelie, unlike some of the other Elysians' personal servants, had never been a friend or even a confidante. Since she was currently muted thanks to Lorelei's tinkering, she simply went about her routine: making the bed, tidying the night table, and making ready Lorelei's things.

Lorelei finished pulling on her boots with a determined grimace. Part of her hated getting up so early; she'd never been a morning person, and her schoolmates wouldn't be getting up until well after the artificial sunrise. And then there was the other part of her, the part that enjoyed the discipline, order, and routine that her sessions with Mr. Smith had brought to her often unpredictable life. Sometimes they even made her forget the gaping hole in her memories where a part of her childhood should have been stored.

_That's what Dr. Perrine is supposed to help me with. Some help she's been. _Lorelei scowled at the thought of her aloof therapist, whom she'd also be seeing today. Aunt Jessica's orders for the last five years.

She made her way down the corridors of the immense estate, thinking of the things she'd said last night. _You're acting so immature, _Lorelei could imagine her aunt saying in that frosty, accented voice. Almost as if she were taunting.

"I am immature. I'm _ten_," said Lorelei out loud as she passed the solarium, as if to remind herself of that fact. So much had already been put upon her narrow shoulders: her lessons and the expectations that came with them, plus the immense burden of merely carrying the Delacourt name. Esme and Anila liked to tease her about being the "Princess of Elysium." Lorelei had since come to disdain the pink, sparkling, ruffled trappings of her earlier years, but they had a point. Her life _was _sort of like being a princess, at least the princesses she'd read about in her history class. People were always telling her what to do, where to go, how to dress. They never bothered to ask her opinions on the subject.

Well, except her friends. They actually cared…and listened. Mr. Smith, too, even if his reaction, a blank wall, was always the same.

No sign of Aunt Jessica anywhere in the house. Lorelei didn't even bother asking one of the droids. They were supposed to cook her meals, make sure she made it safely to school, clean her room…not look after her like she was a baby. A long time ago, Lorelei had gotten just as annoyed with the rest of the household staff as with Amelie, and reprogrammed them accordingly to leave her alone.

The last thing she had expected to see in the enormous foyer was another live person, so, when she spotted Garrett Smith, nattily dressed as always and waiting for her, Lorelei froze. He only rarely visited her at home, and when he did, the news was either very good or very bad. "Good morning, Mr. Smith," she called out, knowing he had already seen her. "Sorry I slept in," she added somewhat sheepishly.

"And a good morning to you." His stoic expression barely changed as she came down the staircase. That was another thing he'd been trying so hard to teach her: how to control her emotions. _If your enemy knows what you are feeling, he has won half the battle already, _he'd once told her. Lorelei may have been a natural in the sims and a whiz at hacking, but control was a skill she sorely lacked. In some ways she admired Mr. Smith for it; other times she wished he'd stop being such a blank slate. Even Aunt Jessica showed more emotion than that. "Shall we?" he asked her as she approached him, hefting her satchel over her shoulder.

Lorelei was confused. "Shall we what, Mr. Smith?" she asked him. She'd planned on taking the auto-programmed aircar to the training center where they normally worked together, and his physical presence troubled her for some reason. "Did I…do something wrong?" she probed, hoping to get at least some clue out of him.

A flicker of something…amusement, perhaps…played across the tall man's lips. "Quite the opposite. We'll be training somewhere else today. Let's just say you're ready for a new challenge," he said, gesturing to the front door.

_He was lying_, Lorelei knew somehow. There was no telling why, and she knew asking would be pointless, so she decided to let it go for now. That was the one thing all the adults in her life had in common: they only told her what they felt she needed to know. "Cool. Where is it?" She tried to sound excited.

"You'll see."

~~s~~

She'd been on hundreds of shuttle rides in her short life, and yet every one of them seemed like a fresh adventure. While Garrett Smith sat in his leather chair aboard his sleek personal Lagonda craft, catching up on his holo-reader, Lorelei pressed her face to the window, admiring not just the mansions of the torus but also the glowing, shimmering sphere of Earth just beyond. It wasn't quite the same as her nighttime viewing sessions, for sure; even so she was fascinated as she always had been.

"You're not playing with your comm pad," Mr. Smith said dryly, his dark eyes hardly moving from his reading. "Why is that, Miss Delacourt? Did you forget it?"

She hadn't; it was stuffed into the very bottom of her satchel. That had been one of the hardest things to keep secret from him: her five years' worth of secret correspondences with J.F. Drake. Inside, she was itching to check it, to see if somehow Drake had written back and given her some helpful advice for her predicament. "Um, I guess I did. I was really looking forward to training today," she said as casually as she could.

Mr. Smith blinked up at her. "Maybe so, or did you just have another argument with your aunt last night? You look as though you haven't slept at all."

How he always managed to intuitively know these things, Lorelei had never been able to figure out. Maybe they both talked about her when she was asleep. "Yeah," she sighed, "she's always trying to make me do things I don't want to do, boss me around, you know?" Lorelei turned her face away, not wanting him to see the tears that sprang to her eyes.

He put down the reader and leaned in close to her. "She only wants what's best for you," he said gently, "as do I. You have to know that, Lorelei."

That almost never happened, him using her first name like that. She was always "Miss Delacourt" to him, just as he was "Mr. Smith" to her. Maybe there was a warm heart in there after all…she'd guessed that out of the three main adults in her life, he was the safest bet there…and at the same time, there was that aloofness, the carefully constructed façade to keep hidden everything underneath. _In a lot of ways, I guess I do that too,_she decided. "I guess so," she agreed, not really feeling the words. She really wished she could go back to bed, pull up the covers, and hide from the world for a day. For the first time in a long time, Lorelei wasn't looking forward to a session in the sims. "Why does she have to be," she added, not caring to drop her annoyance with her aunt just yet, "so weird? You know?"

She felt his warm, reassuring hand on her shoulder; if Aunt Jessica's touch were like ice, then his had always been warm like a thermal spring. He even smiled. "I've known your aunt for a long time, and you know what?"

"What?" Lorelei was intrigued despite herself; she didn't know the adults' real ages, since they never talked about it, and everyone on the torus looked about the same age to her.

"She was always a hard worker, driven, though I'd never have ranked warmth highly on her list of positive traits," Mr. Smith said with the tiniest hint of a smirk. "But I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

It was her turn to laugh. "I watched an old Earth cartoon one time about a queen who could turn things into ice and snow, and _she_was warmer than Aunt Jessica is sometimes," she chuckled.

The aircar had glided almost soundlessly to a halt; in the moment of levity Lorelei had almost forgotten the comm pad in her bag, and her anxiety over the events of the previous day. Almost. "I promise I won't tell Aunt Jessica about what you just said, Mr. Smith," she said as the safety harness lifted automatically.

"I'd appreciate if you didn't." He winked, then likewise got up from his seat, stretching like a big cat. "Let's get you inside."

Lorelei looked out the window. This place was strange to her; a nondescript concrete building which looked more like an emergency bunker than one of the normal CCB training facilities. "Which sector are we in, anyway?" she asked. Normally she followed the track of their flight on her comm or by visual reckoning, but she had stashed away the device, and they'd been too busy talking for her to pay attention to their surroundings.

As the hatch opened with the barest hydraulic hiss, Mr. Smith did something Lorelei was not used to seeing him do, although he was always vigilant. He drew his silver pistol, the one she knew he kept tucked inside the shoulder holster he always wore. And there was something else that set her alarm bells off: no security droids, Homeland or otherwise, guarded this building. Normally there were at least a pair of them at every entrance, and this place looked completely deserted.

"Um, is everything okay, Mr. Smith?" Lorelei asked nervously.

The big man looked all around himself and the landing pad, a full circle sweep, then beckoned for her to step outside the vehicle. "Yes," he said, and the certainty in that single word boosted her confidence. She knew that, in addition to his already sharp senses, the metal implants in Mr. Smith's cheeks and temples let him see, and hear, even farther than most people, though she'd never thought to ask him the exact nature of their functions. "Come on, Miss Delacourt. We're behind schedule already."

Still, that slight hesitation told her there was something he was leaving out. Lorelei decided to follow her instinct, and stayed silent. _I don't know why grown-ups think kids can't handle the truth,_she thought, hefting her bag over one shoulder._Why they'd rather lie to us._

It was all she could do not to pull out her comm pad for a quick look-see, but as she'd come to learn about Mr. Smith, he also seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, perhaps another special feature of those facial implants. Lorelei mustered her restraint and walked on toward the bunker.

~~s~~

It wasn't even 0700 yet and already Lorelei had worked herself up to a sweat. Though the drills had been largely the same as they always were, Mr. Smith had been good to his word. There had been a few more new challenges thrown in there, and Lorelei had thrown herself into them with gusto. Any trace of lingering fatigue was gone. As she greedily sucked down some of her vita-water from a plastic bottle, she reminded herself that she still had a full day of dull classroom lessons ahead of her. At least she'd be seeing her friends. Maybe they'd have something useful to tell her.

Lorelei pictured them, and heard their voices, in her mind as she gathered her things to take to the dressing room for a shower. Anila, of course, would urge her to directly confront the adults, badger them until they gave her the information they wanted. If there was anyone on the torus more of a go-getter than the fiery, opinionated Anila Patel, Lorelei didn't know who it might be. On the other hand, Esme would probably just do what she always did, and stay quiet on the matter. _You can observe a lot just by watching,_the other girl had once said. _That's what my father says, or at least some old baseball player on Earth did, and Dad just quoted him._

The trouble was, Lorelei realized as she pulled off her sweaty boots, that she was neither as assertive as Anila nor as much a wallflower as sweet, shy Esme. There were times when she wanted to tie her aunt, Mr. Smith, and Dr. Perrine to chairs, hold hot irons to their feet, and demand that they fill in the yawning gaps in her memories. Other days she just wanted to be left alone in her room, playing with her comm, hacking into places she shouldn't, brooding over how unfair life could be even if you had everything you needed and more.

_Everything,_she thought as she rather violently undid her ponytail, _except the truth._

Inside the spacious locker room, as usual, Lorelei was the only person present, though she always had the uncanny sense she was being watched. _That's silly,_she wanted to believe, though she knew, from plenty of experience, that hidden cameras, some of them tiny, were literally everywhere on the torus, and though she also wanted to believe that a place like this was a sanctuary, she also knew better than that. What was creepier, she wondered, having the boogeyman in his dark cloak come to stare at her at her bedside, or the prospect of some bored techie looking in on her from the CCB control room? Luckily, whenever she had detected the presence of a camera, Lorelei had devised a simple but clever scrambling app that would deter any would-be Peeping Toms. All they'd see was static while the app was in place. That being said, all she had in here was that strange feeling, like a cold finger running up and down her spine.

_I wonder,_Lorelei thought as she finished dressing in her neatly pressed school uniform, _if the boogeyman doesn't just look in on me at night? Whether he watches me during the day somehow too?_

The morbidly curious side of her actually wondered where he'd been these past few nights. She'd never gone more than a week without one of his nocturnal visits, and in her own way, had come to crave the shared connection between then just as much as she likewise feared him. More discussion fodder for Dr. Perine…Lorelei winced at the thought of it…if she actually had bothered to confide in her therapist anymore.

The one person she could confide in was just outside, Lorelei knew, standing sentry as he always did. Mr. Smith was perhaps the one person who really respected her privacy. Today, though, he was not at his usual close-but-discreet distance as she exited the changing room. Maybe he'd gone to the bathroom, although, she suddenly realized, she'd never seen him do that either.

"Hello? Mr. Smith?" Lorelei called out, noticing how her voice failed to echo in this underground chamber. Shrugging, she decided to go look for him, remembering where she'd seen the toilets on the way in. He may have been the most stoic man she knew, but everyone had to go eventually, even him.

She'd only gotten halfway down the long corridor when she heard his voice, low and conspiratorial, like he was talking to someone. Even from where she was, Lorelei got the impression she was hearing only one side of it, that he was speaking to someone on a holo-screen or a comm. Instinctively she also knew that this wasn't supposed to be something she listened to, though the same side of her that longed for the boogeyman's return propelled her onward, edging closer to the source of Mr. Smith's voice on cat's feet.

"…because, as I said, we can't take any chances," Lorelei heard him saying, his voice calm and unruffled as always. "Yes, I'm keeping a close watch on Syren, you know that." A pause, and his tone turned slightly flustered. "You know as well as I that I'd inform you of the _slightest_abnormality, the tiniest whisper of trouble…"

Lorelei didn't know what he was talking about…it was another of his top-secret agent conversations, probably…yet she was intrigued. Courage, and sheer interest, overrode logic, and she peeked her blond head an inch or so around the open doorway. Mr. Smith was indeed talking on his wrist comm, pacing back and forth in the small room like an agitated bear. Lorelei had never been great at reading people, but she could tell something was bothering him. He spoke directly into the device.

"I have to cut this short, as I never know who might be listening these days. I will keep you abreast. Smith out."

Quickly Lorelei pulled back, her heart in her throat. Had he seen her? Smelled her, perhaps? She'd come to think of Mr. Smith as a kind of ninja like in those old stories, and no ability he possessed, even a supernatural ability, would have surprised her anymore. What would she say to him if he asked why she was eavesdropping? She thought of something quickly, and, lame though it was, it would have to do.

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Smith," Lorelei said, poking her head around the door and plastering a fake smile on her face. "I, um, got lost on the way to the restroom, and I just heard your voice." _Yeah, pretty stupid, all right._

To her great surprise and relief, he just smiled serenely. "No need to apologize at all. This is a new facility for you, and you saw what the layout is like. Even I got lost in here once," he conceded, pulling his jacket sleeve back over his comm. "Are you ready for me to take you to school?"

"Yeah." She wanted to exhale her relief, but held back. He either hadn't seen her, or he was a terrific actor. Probably the latter, considering the kind of poker face he had. Still, she couldn't help try and extract at least a nugget of information from him. "Were you on the phone with somebody? I didn't mean to interrupt," she said, using a favorite tactic of her aunt's. _When you want something, always act like you're sorry._

There was that brief moment of hesitation on his features again, a lightning flash across an otherwise cloudless sky. "It's nothing," Mr. Smith said, "just routine business. I wouldn't want to bore you, Miss Delacourt."

"No, I guess not," said Lorelei, though the hundred questions she'd wanted to ask him before had now multiplied to a thousand. Whatever he'd been talking about, it _was_important, and it probably involved her. "Can we go now? I'm getting a little claustrophobic in here," she added, and that much was true. This training facility was sublevel, and had none of the open space of their usual venue.

"Of course. Do you have your things?"

_What aren't you telling me?_Lorelei wondered as she slung her pack across her back. _And how deep am I going to have to hack this time to find out?_

~~s~~

"I bet it's the plague."

"Which one?"

"Who cares? _A_plague. The kind that makes your skin turn green, and then into a zombie," Anila Patel explained, sticking her slender, coppery arms in front of her for emphasis and moaning comically.

"There's no such thing as zombies," Esme Talbert protested in her prim RP. "I know. My grandfather is a biochemist and he says it's all nonsense."

School was finally out for the day, and Lorelei, Anila and Esme were tracking their way through the adjacent hedge gardens, Garrett Smith trailing at a discreet distance. Though she was relaxed in the presence of her two closest friends, Lorelei knew she had to be careful what she said. Mr. Smith would hear…and report…every word to her aunt and Dr. Perine. The three girls had speculated on the added security that day, double the number of droids patrolling the grounds and an unexpected safety evacuation drill in the middle of the afternoon.

"It's probably just the _Fete d'Automne_coming up_._You know, how 'anyone who's anyone will be there,'" Lorelei said in a stiff imitation of her aunt's Quebecois. "And it's a masquerade this year, so everyone will be in disguise. They'd have to need extra security for that."

Anila snorted. "Don't remind me. _Amma_still is badgering me to choose a costume," she said, "and she wants Sanjay to dress as Mahatma Gandhi. I told her, let him have the silly loincloth if he likes, but I have more dignity than to wear something like that."

"Gandhi was the one of the greatest leaders of the twentieth century," Esme said. "Show some respect."

"He may have been, but he was funny-looking and he drank his own urine."

"You are so vulgar, Anila."

Lorelei laughed half-heartedly, but her mind really wasn't on the ball or even what costume she might wear. All these things were happening at once: the boogeyman's absence, the eerie silence from J.F. Drake, Mr. Smith's enigmatic conversations, the stepped-up security. It was like having a box full of puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit, yet desperately needed to form some greater picture. They _had_to be tied together, didn't they? As Mr. Smith was so fond of saying, there was no such thing as true coincidence. And nobody was willing to give her any answers, or even a clue. Lorelei scowled as she walked the well-tended path, kicking at a rock in her way.

"So what are you dressing as, Lorelei?" Esme asked her hopefully. Unlike the other two, she had always been fully invested in the idea that the right clothes and shoes were the main keys to success in life.

She hadn't given it much thought, but she said the very first thing that popped into her mind, without even thinking. "I think I'll be a mercenary," Lorelei said, a sly smile creeping over her features. "You know, like one of those super-secret CCB agents?"

Anila and Esme stopped mid-stride to stare at her.

"What?" Lorelei shrugged. "I already sort of dress like them, you know, when I do my physical training," she explained, tilting her head to indicate Mr. Smith behind her. "It's an easy costume: fatigues, boots…"

"Your aunt would be upset," Anila said solemnly, her dark almond eyes sparkling with mischief. "Whatever would she say?"

"I bet she'd ground you for a month," added Esme.

Lorelei stopped to consider this. She'd been grounded for far less grievous offenses before, and it might actually be fun to see the expression on Aunt Jessica's face in front of all the most important people on Elysium. It was a thought, at least. "Or maybe," she said dramatically, raising her own arms and pretending to menace her friends, "I'll just be really scary, and dress as a zommmmbiieeeee," she announced, moaning out the word as if she really had just become an undead version of herself.

That was too much; the three of them, even Esme, dissolved into fits of giggles. It was sorely needed after a couple of long, dry lectures on World War I and Latin irregular verbs that afternoon.

On her back, Lorelei felt a slight vibration through her pack. For a moment she wondered if Anila had set her up with some wild prank again, then realized it was her faithful old Dragonfly pad at the bottom of her bag, the one she'd stuffed down in there before leaving home that morning. She'd been so preoccupied she'd all but forgotten about it. Now, though, Lorelei could feel her heart thumping. One long followed by two shorts and another long, was the notification from one very specific person.

"I laughed so hard I have to pee," she said to her friends, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes for effect. "Be right back, okay?"

"Be careful of zombies. I hear they like to hide in the toilets," Anila warned.

"They do not," Lorelei heard Esme say as she turned to leave. "They're not even _real_…"

Turning back toward the school, and the one place she was sure she'd have at least a few minutes of privacy, Lorelei nearly ran into Mr. Smith, who had been following perhaps twenty feet behind them. "Are you quite all right, Miss Delacourt?" he asked her, kneeling down so that they were nearly at eye level. "Did you forget something?"

It was the way he asked it, like there was some hidden meaning in his words, that made her swallow hard. With him, nothing was ever as it seemed; an entire reef of lively creatures lived beneath those still, calm waters. "No, Mr. Smith. I, um, just need to go to the restroom again," Lorelei said, hoping she sounded genuine.

"Very well. I'll wait outside for you."

It was only a short distance back to school, and yet Lorelei felt that same heady mix of excitement and dread she normally reserved for the hooded man himself. J.F. Drake had finally written her back. What had he said? What sort of news, or advice, had she gotten from him?

She didn't dare pull out her comm pad, or even take off her backpack, until she'd safely locked herself into the farthest stall from the door inside the girls' bathroom. Yes, perhaps she was being watched even in here, but Lorelei knew she didn't have a choice. Besides, her curiosity was burning now. She had to know. With trembling hands, she pulled the old but venerable device from the bottom of her bag and unlocked it to receive the text message. When she finally read it, she didn't know whether to be disappointed or not. It was short, as if Drake had been in a great hurry when he wrote it.

_Coming up next few days for extra security. Maybe you and I will finally meet._

After a moment, Lorelei realized she had been holding her breath, and exhaled deeply. Was that all? Nothing about an answer to her questions, or a bit of advice on dealing with her aunt? She scrolled through again, looking for anything. It didn't come.

Knowing her time in here was short, since there was only so long Mr. Smith would wait without assuming she'd somehow fallen in, Lorelei texted back rapidly, fingers flying.

_I don't even know what you look like. And we have the masquerade next week, is that what you mean? How will I know it's you?_

She clicked "send," then waited for what seemed like an eternity, pacing the tight confines of the stall. When at last the pad did vibrate its alert again, Lorelei read what it said. It was a single line. She felt her heart frantically galloping.

_Oh, I think you'll know me when you see me._

_To Be Continued_


	6. The Mouths That Roared

Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay; life has been crazy busy as of late. Thanks to the Wrecking Kru for their input, feedback and support as always.**

"Why you wearing that, boss?"

Crowe's question seemed innocent enough. They were still in the suite…the one with the funny name…and dawn wasn't far off now. When Drake finally managed to force himself to look down, he was astonished to see a pink, frothy tutu where his trousers had been moments before.

Either he'd fallen asleep, or this was Kruger's idea of a sick joke. Probably both.

"What the fuck?" he said, mostly to himself, as he tried to pull the garment off, only to find that it had apparently been glued to his midsection. This prompted a torrent of drunken giggles from Crowe, who sat opposite him on one of the overstuffed Cordovan leather chairs, and was himself inexplicably wearing a blue rubber wetsuit complete with flippers.

Drake thought about it for a moment, tried to piece his fragmented thoughts together. He'd sent Crowe out to check on the battered Tselios, had been alone in the suite catching up with Kruger, and then? Nothing, apparently, but it had been enough time for them to change clothes.

"You look sooooo pretty, Drakey-boy," Crowe cooed at him, batting his eyelashes as if to flirt with his commander. "Mind if I see what's under that tutu, boet?"

"Shut up. Think for a minute. How'd this happen? And why the fuck are you wearing that outfit?"

Had there been any crickets in the spacious room, they might have been chirping, because neither Crowe nor Drake seemed to have an answer to what should have been an obvious question. There was, however, music playing from somewhere in the room, a lilting orchestral waltz that seemed familiar but which neither of them could name. "Hey, boet, wanna dance?" Crowe slurred, apparently forgetting all about the predicament at hand.

"Why not?" Drake heard himself say, not knowing quite why. The kind of booze, and drugs, they had in this place had smashed a gigantic hole in the wall of his judgment. He wobbled to his feet, made his way over to where the pilot stood, and in the middle of the suite, beneath the exquisite chandelier, they waltzed across the polished floor, Crowe's flippered feet inexplicably leading the way.

"Didn't know you could dance," said Drake as he felt himself being led, less a glide than an awkward shuffle.

"I can't," laughed Crowe. "And even if I could, you think I'd be wearing this kak?" And he leaned over to plant a sloppy, wet kiss right in Drake's left ear. "Wake up, now, Drakey…"

A groan. The pre-dawn light had been replaced by something else, something artificial and bright, and the rubber-clad Crowe had vanished altogether. "Wake up," the admonition repeated itself, and this time, Drake did. The icy water being dribbled slowly into his left ear, surely, had something to do with that.

"Jesus!" he shouted, springing to his feet on woozy, unsteady legs which he thought might buckle but held steady. "I'm fucking awake already!"

The dribbler in question was not Crowe, or even Tselios, but a wickedly grinning Kruger, who, in addition to being fully armed and dressed, held a half-full glass of water. He mischievously held it up. "And I thought Crowe was hard to wake up from a hangover. What're you gonna do when your next target finds you snoozing away, Drakey? Fucking invite them to have a nap?" he said caustically.

As his eyes quickly adjusted to the blue glow of the interior lights, Drake realized he was back on board his own ship, the _Golden Hind_, and dawn had come and gone hours ago. It was practically midday. "First of all," he pointed out, feeling more than a little embarrassed, "what I do on leave is my own fucking business. And…" The second statement he'd been about to make eluded him; in its place was a steady, throbbing headache, the remnants of the previous night's revelry. He groaned again. "That's the last time I get drunk in one of these places. I'm a married man now, with responsibilities, and all that kak." He rubbed at his sore temples.

"You're a soft _poes_ now, is what you are," countered Kruger, still smiling that predatory smile he always wore when he knew he was right. "You'd never cut it on my team now."

Drake didn't respond to that appraisal. He knew full well about his former boss' disdain for marriage and kids (they softened a man, diminished his effectiveness in the field, and all but turned him into a eunuch) and that arguing would be pointless. He just shrugged and grunted. Something else was bothering him, though, aside from the obvious hangover and blank slate of hours that preceded it. "What are you doing here anyway?" he asked Kruger, realizing that was what it was. "Don't you have somewhere to go, someone to disembowel?"

The grin widened, and those all-black eyes flashed dangerously. "Not at the moment I don't, boet. Thought I'd come see your new ship, since you never bothered to send me one of those nice little fucking invitations. Even christened it for you." Kruger chuckled dryly.

There was no telling what he meant by that, and again, Drake didn't bother to ask. "She's nice, isn't she? Real beauty," he said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice as he fished for something non-alcoholic in one of the lockers.

"If you want to settle for this sort of thing," Kruger said with a shrug. "Give me my Raven any day of the week and you can keep this little piece of _kak_."

That didn't seem worth arguing about. In one mighty gulp, Drake opened and downed the one bottle of lukewarm water he was able to find. It tasted good, but did very little to alleviate the rhythmic pounding in his head. As he rummaged around for one of the meds for that, he kept talking over his shoulder. "So anyway, did you bring me here or did I manage on my own?" He honestly couldn't remember a thing after they'd gone up to the suite. He'd sent Crowe out to check on Tselios, then nothing. He still had no idea where either of his men were, or if they were similarly afflicted. _Probably best if they weren't,_ Drake thought grimly as he located the little foil packet he'd been looking for.

In all the years Drake had worked with Kruger, one of the strangest things he'd come to realize about the bearded man was that, despite his fearsome and mercurial nature, he possessed a playful, almost puckish sense of humor when he was in the right mood. This seemed to be one of those times. "Oh, I don't know, Drakey," Kruger said, lacing his hands behind his head and leaning back in his seat. "I was having so much fun, I couldn't begin to tell you."

That could mean anything coming from Kruger. Still, Drake sensed that there was something his former boss was holding just out of reach, daring him to come and get it, like a biscuit held before a hungry dog. "I didn't do anything stupid, right? Nothing that will get me written up or anything?" he prodded. That had already happened once since Drake had taken his own command, some stupid night of indiscretion in Bali…and he'd sworn to his wife it would never happen again. _So much for that, Rina my love. I'm only fucking human._

"Nothing I wouldn't do."

That was another peculiar side of the multi-faceted being that was C.M. Kruger. For a man who sliced, diced, and exploded people for a living, he could be downright obtuse, and mysterious, when he wanted to be. Drake tried to read meaning into that single sentence, any clue or tell given away in that hawkish face. Was his old comrade teasing him? Goading him? Trying to get him to incriminate himself? It was so hard to say, and at the moment, Drake's hangover prevented most coherent thought anyway. "There's not a lot you wouldn't do, boss," he conceded. Trying to change the subject, he added, "You seen the other two around anywhere? We might have another 24 hours of leave yet, but I'd at least like to know they didn't get thrown in the local jail or something."

"Or something?" Kruger raised one thick eyebrow in amusement. "Drakey, I beat the everloving shit out of your cocky new gunner last night, and that's not just 'or something,' boet."

He remembered now, the last night's hazy events coming into focus like the images in one of those ancient Polaroid photos. Finding his junior team member on the cage fight floor, where he'd been foolish enough to challenge the notorious 32 Alpha. Then, once he'd arrived, seeing the tail end of what had obviously been a one-sided affair. Drake screwed his eyes shut, as if that would make all of this shitstorm go away. "Don't tell me you sent him to hospital," he said behind gritted teeth.

Kruger brayed with laughter. "You yourself said you wanted to teach the stupid fucker a lesson, make him suffer the pain of his lack of judgment all night before he got in a med-bay. So that's just what happened. Crowe stayed awake long enough, spoon-fed him chicken soup or some _kak_, then got him fixed up. I don't know the details, but yeah, the bastard was fine last I checked. Don't think he'll want to make that mistake again, eh?"

That was something Drake could at least agree with, and he nodded. "So you have seen him?" he asked, tipping his head back and dry-swallowing the tablets to relieve his migraine.

"Ja. He was stumbling around this morning." Kruger smiled ironically, then winked. "He'll live. I knew he was with you, so I went easy on him."

"That's a real relief, boet." The effect from the hangover relief tablet was nearly instant…one of the more ingenious medical innovations to come from the Elysium labs…and Drake felt the splitting headache receding already. Just thinking of the torus, though, made him pause. That was his next assignment, after all, some high-brow event that required extra security. Why the CCB couldn't get their shit together with Armadyne and manufacture an extra droid squad instead of wasting valuable veteran agents, with all the constant turmoil on Earth needing attention, was beyond him. _I'm a commander now, not some rent-a-cop. _Maybe Kruger and his team would be there too, though it seemed unlikely given the Defense Secretary's frosty relationship with him these past few years.

So why was he even worrying about it? What dots wasn't he connecting here? Drake tried to keep his own expression neutral as he spoke. "Where are you and your boys headed next?" he asked Kruger, trying to keep things light…and possibly reveal a clue as to the other man's mysterious intentions.

"Oh, nowhere interesting," Kruger said just as casually. Strictly speaking, the various elite assault teams under the Oryx umbrella were supposed to be ignorant of each other's missions and objectives, but among the tight-knit fraternity of agents, and with all the alcohol flowing in clubs like this one, all the secrecy ended up getting thrown right out the window. "Mostly the ice-mare bitch has my squad doing mop-up duty these days. Why, I can't fucking imagine," he added, though he knew full well Delacourt's intentions.

"Is that so?" Drake averted his gaze, using the flimsy excuse of rummaging for a protein bar to avoid looking into Kruger's cold stare. He, too, knew why they'd been separated in the first place, why he now commanded his own top of the line ship, why Kruger and his men were now relegated to third-stringer status. _It's this giant fucking elephant in the room, and neither of us is saying it. Should I? Or maybe I should just wait for him to say it? _"At least you're not going where we've been. Last mission was a fucking death trap for sure."

"South of Yemen, wasn't it?"

"You got it."

Kruger leaned forward, looking pensive. A strange look, which Drake couldn't quite place, came over his angular face. He had just opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by the barely audible hydraulic sound of the ship's rear door opening. As two familiar figures in fatigues emerged from the bright Arabian sunlight outside into the dimmer interior of the _Hind, _Drake realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out with a soft _whoosh _and greeted them.

"Well, well. Looks like somebody stumbled into a med-bay, eh? I hope you learned an important lesson, boetie," Drake said to his gunner.

It was hard to tell Tselios had ever been in a cage match at all, much less had his ass handed to him the previous night. Grinning, he high-fived his commander, and Crowe did the same. Both of them sat on the bank of seats opposite Drake, and started to speak at once.

"I wish you'd have been there to see it, boss," Tselios laughed. "That other oke didn't stand a fucking chance."

Crowe and Drake both gaped at him, utter disbelief on their faces. When Tselios glimpsed Kruger and realized that there was a fourth person present, the very same guy who had beaten the shit out of him, the wide grin vanished, and in its place was a look of pure horror.

"That's not how I heard it, _boytjie_," Kruger said with wry, measured amusement. He'd slipped into the recessed shadows a moment ago, the way he always seemed to have a knack for doing…and now he was back, right on cue. "Tell me again how that goes?"

Tselios gulped. "I guess, what I mean to say is," he stammered, "_I _didn't stand a fucking chance, eh?" His deep, Afrikaner-accented voice had risen by half an octave in his haste to correct himself. "No hard feelings?"

For a moment, Drake and Crowe were both convinced that Kruger, though a good three inches shorter and twenty kilos lighter than the younger man, was about to provide an encore of his dazzling previous night's performance and open another industrial-size can of whoop-ass. Then he did something that amazed everyone. He reached out a hand to Tselios, effortlessly pulling him up from his seat and into a manly bear hug, slapping him jovially on the back as he did so.

"No fucking hard feelings indeed, unless you count the hard-on you've clearly got for your superiors." Kruger tousled Tselios' faux-hawk hairstyle as if he were a father gently ribbing his young son. As he leaned in closer, Drake heard him throw in _sotto voce_, "Just keep practicing, and maybe you'll make it interesting some day, huh, kid?"

"I will. Sir," he quickly added with no trace of sarcasm. "Are you really _the _32 Alpha? The one who pulled off the Pechersk raid back in '31, and sliced up that bastard Rios in El Salvador?"

"Guilty as charged!" Kruger grinned broadly.

Drake and Crowe tried not to laugh, or at least roll their eyes. It was hard not to be in awe of the legend that was Kruger; they'd behaved much the same way, with the same wide-eyed adulation, when they first got assigned to him all those years ago. But Tselios was positively gushing as Kruger began to recount some of his true-life exploits. It was like seeing a young rugby fan get up close and personal with his favorite player.

Besides, there was nothing Kruger liked to talk about more than himself.

As the two of them bantered back and forth, Drake seized his opportunity. Now that his splitting headache and nausea were in the rear-view mirror, he intended to find, as best he could, out what the hell was going on, and why Kruger had been acting so coy about things. Maybe he'd even manage to piece together the missing hours from last night. Speaking out of the corner of his mouth, he spoke to Crowe in a low voice. "So, how bad was it?"

"You, or the kid there?" Crowe said, indicating Tselios with a curt nod. The rangy man wasn't a kid, of course; he had to be at least fifty in real time. Both of them had gotten so used to calling him that, and it had simply become habit.

"I'll settle for either at this point, boet."

Crowe stifled a smirk. "You were out of it pretty bad when I showed back up with him, all bruised and battered like in one of those old _Rocky _films. And you were also snoring like a heavy saw; I tried to wake you up but you were _out._ As for him, he finally fell asleep after pissing and moaning like a stupid _giyn _for an hour or so. I guess I did too, because when I woke up, it was maybe 0700 and I took him to the med-bay like you said. He was a little woozy, and he'd been concussed and gotten a few cracked ribs, but he's right as rain now." Indeed, Tselios looked the picture of health, perhaps comically so, as he babbled on and on to his idol.

"And," Drake checked to see if Tselios and Kruger were still occupied in their war stories (_they were_), "you weren't wearing a scuba suit during any of this?"

"Why the fuck would I be wearing that?"

Drake shrugged. "No reason." Indicating Kruger this time, he pressed on. "Did he say anything weird last night after I fell asleep? Like," and he dropped his voice to a mere whisper, "about you-know-who up in you-know where?"

The bald man frowned. "There's an awful fucking lot of 'you-know-whos' in our line of work, boss, and old Kruger there is always saying weird things. Can you be more specific?"

And there it was, that nasty old elephant in the room raising its tusks yet again: the fact that not only had Drake been corresponding with Lorelei Delacourt in secret, via text messaging, for the last five years, but that he hadn't told another living soul. Not Crowe, not Kruger, certainly not Tselios with his big mouth. Not even his wife. Yes, he'd _talked _about what had happened with Crowe on occasion, but the pilot, along with everyone else, was convinced that the last time he had spoken to her was that night in the hospital wing. It was a secret Drake had buried deep within himself, and now, faced with that reality, he didn't quite know why he'd done it in the first place, giving the girl his comm codes and possibly blowing his own cover. Gratitude, for what she had done for them? Guilt, maybe? Very technically speaking, he wasn't breaking any regulation in anonymously (and he _had _gone by only his initials) corresponding with the girl, even if her auntie would have had the mother of all bitch-fits had she ever found out. Yet there seemed something inherently _right _about it despite the obvious covert nature of the whole thing. The poor kid didn't have any real outlets to talk to up there…Drake knew through the grapevine that her only adult confidantes, in addition to her aunt, were the solid but taciturn Agent Smith and the positively aloof Agent Roi-Schultz, both veterans well past their prime and not exactly known for their charisma with young kids. Lorelei needed a grown-up friend, not just a bodyguard or counselor. He had been that friend, and he intended to keep on being that friend as long as was necessary.

"You all right there, boss?"

The thought of Lorelei had distracted Drake for a moment, but the sound of Crowe's voice brought him quickly back. "Fine, and forget I said anything. It doesn't matter," he said, perhaps a bit too irritably. Desperate to change the subject, knowing his pilot would ask questions, he added, "Go ahead and go through the pre-flight stuff if you would, eh? Get her ready to fly."

"We've got another twelve hours before we need to head out." Crowe didn't sound the least bit convinced; he normally never questioned an order.

"Just do it, all right?" Drake urged as Tselios laughed at something Kruger had just said. If either of them overheard them talking about the girl, even caught wind of what was going on, he was in deep shit.

"Fine. Some thanks I get for last night, eh?"

Drake flipped the pilot his middle finger. As he did so, he felt a small but insistent nudge from that invisible elephant standing in the room. _What if_, he wondered, a cold knot of dread tightening in his gut, _Kruger _already _knew about what I've been doing? How I've been going behind everyone's back to keep in touch with her? Hell, what if he's found some way to tap my fucking comms?_

He carefully studied his former boss, who was telling the tale of how he'd once fucked four sisters from the same family in one bed. Kruger had almost always been an open book, his heart and emotions fully on display on one camouflaged sleeve. However, as with his twisted sense of humor, the Oryx leader could show a secretive side worthy of the best deep-cover operatives on occasion. It was probably one reason the bastard had stayed alive for so long. Drake, along with Crowe, probably knew him about as well as anyone could, and yet, like an elaborate kaleidoscope, the man always managed to show new, strangely glimmering facets to his personality.

It was hard to pin down how he really felt about the girl. Lorelei. She had undeniably saved his life five years ago, so what did that mean? Drake had never considered himself an expert in human behavior, but anyone could see that there had been _something _between Kruger and the girl. He'd almost immediately ruled out a carnal attraction to the underage Lorelei…Kruger, for all his vices, had never possessed that particular one…but there was obviously some sort of connection. Just the looks Kruger had given the girl down there in Jozi had confirmed his suspicions.

_Probably the same thing he feels about her dear auntie. There's some sort of weird love-hate connection there too, but I value my fucking life to much to ask what it might be._

"So, you've got a nice house up on the torus, eh?" Drake heard Tselios saying. "I'm too junior for one yet, but I'm gonna save enough for my own place soon."

"Ja." Kruger nodded and spread his arms wide. "Huge fucking place, and I'm never up there enough to enjoy it. Most of the time, it just sits empty. I _will _be having one of my famous parties pretty soon, you know, for the start of the rugby union season. Ask the boys here; they'll tell you what a _jol _those are."

Tselios leaned in. Other than girls and fighting, rugby was pretty much all he ever talked about. "Mind if I drop in? I'd love to see it," he said as casually as he could, when in reality Drake knew he'd probably cut off his right hand to get invited to such an event at his idol's home.

"Why not? You lasted a couple rounds with me, _boytjie_, so I figure that's good for at least a beer or two on the house, eh?"

"What d'you think, boss?" Tselios said, grinning stupidly and turning to Drake as if to ask permission.

There was hardly time to think. Drake was fairly desperate to change the subject; tiptoeing around the subject of Lorelei and Elysium were about as easy as navigating blindly through a minefield and just as dangerous. And with Tselios around, the last thing he wanted to do was give Kruger more ammunition to play with. "As long as we've got leave for that week," he said vaguely, quickly darting his eyes to Kruger, who betrayed absolutely none of his intentions. "That'll be next month, won't it?" Since taking his own command and starting his young family, Drake suddenly realized he'd stopped watching as much rugby as he used to; hardly had time for it anymore. _Maybe the boss has a point about getting soft after all._

"Of course it is, Drakey. You've been to dozens of those. Did you take a mind-eraser along with that little hangover pill of yours?" admonished Kruger in a sing-songy voice that would have sounded absurd coming from anyone else.

Tselios laughed at that, and before Drake or Crowe could stop him, he opened his big mouth again. "Killer sense of humor and a killer in the ring, sir! I bet we'll be seeing you again in a couple days anyway, you know, that big shindig they're having up there. Considering all the extra security they wanted, surely they asked you too, eh?"

The glance Drake flicked at him might have melted through a blast shield door in the Griffins' Nest on the torus, but it went unnoticed by Tselios. Kruger, however, paid full attention to what had just been said, and he wore roughly the same expression as a hyena fixated on a crippled, dying gemsbok. The curiosity, and the single raised eyebrow, told, if not the whole story, enough for Drake to draw his own conclusions.

_No, he didn't get an invitation…he might have been kept in the dark about the whole thing…and the quickest way to get the boss to do something is to tell him he can't, or it's off limits. Now he won't let it go until he sees it through._

"Maybe they did," Kruger said, briefly returning Drake's baleful stare and winking, "and maybe they didn't. I'm a popular guy, in great demand."

_Oh fuck, he knows. Somehow, he knows. How could he possibly know?_

Now, Drake was positively desperate to get Kruger off his ship so he could confer with his men, get them all on the same page, and collect his own racing thoughts. Tselios clearly had no idea what he had just done. He might have screwed them all, or else put Lorelei in even more danger. There was no telling. _First things first_.

"Listen, boss. I hate to cut this short, but," he said to Kruger, keeping his tone level and calm as he could, "we have to do our morning briefing, and this one's eyes only. Sorry to have to kick you out, eh?" He extended his hand for Kruger to shake. "Great to see you again, and I'll make every effort to see that we get up there in time for the kickoff party next month."

"You better. And bring some fucking Castle with you from home, none of that German _kak _like last time," Kruger said, returning the handshake with his customary, titanium implant-enhanced, bone-crushing grip. "Wouldn't want you to go," he paused and waggled one eyebrow mischievously, "all _girly_ on me. You know?"

It was all Drake could do not to swallow the huge lump in his throat. The choice of that particular word had to be deliberate. Dammit if Kruger wasn't a cat toying with a helpless mouse before he finally killed the poor creature. But Drake was not helpless, and he certainly was no mouse. He'd find some way to keep the two of them apart, keep Kruger from preying on the kid in whatever twisted way he intended. _Jesus, I'm actually _protective_ of her now. Does that happen when you have kids of your own, or did I always have it in me? _ "Ja, I know," he finally said. "Wherever it is you and your new boys are going next, good luck." It sounded stupid and weak, but it was the best he had.

Kruger, after what seemed like an interminable pause, his black eyes boring into Drake's own blue ones, turned to go with a shrug. "See you around, you ugly _tietkop_," he called to Crowe over in the pilot box. The big man merely waved, as he was preoccupied with programming the ship. "As for you, kid," he addressed Tselios, "don't let your fucking dream die, eh? Keep practicing."

"I will, sir. Pleasure to finally talk to you face to face."

It took forever for Kruger to finally climb out the rear door of the _Hind, _but when he did and Drake guessed he was finally out of earshot, he exhaled deeply. Fifteen minutes with Kruger around could be like trying to survive in a locked room with a tiger. Even though the hangover cure had done its work, the cold dread that had taken its place was almost worse.

"Crowe, find my comlink, and for God's sake hurry up with that pre-flight. Tselios, boet, find me something to drink."

"Beer, boss?" the kid offered helpfully.

Drake shook his head adamantly and sprawled into his custom-made commander's chair, the one he'd paid extra for. "No, just some water. Jesus Christ, what a day," he muttered to himself, leaning back in the comfortable seat and closing his eyes.

A thousand thoughts were running through his mind; it was as if all the comm channels had been turned on and were blasting at full volume. The one which was loudest seemed to be KLOR: Drake's unmitigated concern for the girl's welfare. If Kruger got around her again, or if he knew about their secret communications, he and the girl both could be in deep trouble. That was why he just needed some time to think before the big party tonight.

Tselios, like a trained dog, brought over a chilled bottle of water from the onboard refrigerator and opened it. "Want us to stick around for our briefing, boss?" he asked hopefully, eager as always to have something to do.

"Yes…" As Drake spoke, he noticed the strangest thing. A note, one of those sticky yellow things, had been attached to one arm of his chair. _What the fuck? _Grabbing it, he immediately recognized the strong, heavy scrawl. He groaned and read it.

_I made you a little present, Drakey. Call it a christening gift! Just press your holo to see it. By the way, your fucking chair will need a good cleaning._

It had been signed simply "C.M.K."

Drake debated whether he even wanted to see the "gift" Kruger had left him; his former boss had put him through enough this morning. Finally curiosity got the better of him, and, as if he were cutting a wire to an explosive device about to detonate, he clicked the _Initiate _button.

There was Kruger, in all his naked, toned glory, frolicking in a variety of insanely limber positions with the two Scandinavian twins from the previous night, the ones who had thrown their panties at him. At one point, he even spoke directly to the camera as the two girls writhed, squealed and sucked.

"_Hey, look, Drakey. Not one, but two 'golden behinds,' _eh?"

He sat there, stunned and feeling both sickened and strangely aroused. There was no telling how long he watched the X-rated antics, but when he finally looked up, both Crowe and Tselios were standing over him, both trying with all their might not to smile.

"On second thought, boys," Drake let out a long sigh and terminated the holo with an abrupt click, "I think I'll need a beer after all."

_To Be Continued_


	7. There Is No Plan B

Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay; life has kept me busy. Thanks to the Wrecking Kru as always.**

Secretary Delacourt flicked almost lazily at the "end transmission" button on her desktop, causing the holograms of the CCB Eastern regional heads in Kyoto, Melbourne, and Karachi to disappear in unison. It was only the beginning of her day, and, like almost all of them nowadays, it promised to be long, unduly stressful, and full of unpleasant surprises. When she spoke into her comlink to her droid servant in the next room, she was surprised to hear the irritation, along with the fatigue, in her own voice.

"Espresso, Olga. The strong stuff," she snapped, in French, into her earpiece.

"Right away, Madame Secretary."

She sighed deeply after the brief connection ended. It wasn't like her to lose her temper, even if it _was_ only a droid.

The last week or so had made her feel, well, _old_. Though, like most of her Founders Generation colleagues, Jessica Delacourt was rapidly pushing the double century mark, her energy levels and physical appearance were much closer to a woman in her mid-forties, that vague purgatory of an age where every senior Elysian seemed to permanently linger thanks to the med-bays. Today, though, she was feeling every one of her years. In her bones, her skin, her _head_. The disturbing intelligence coming in from the Eastern Region had done nothing to alleviate the splitting headache, either

_There is much chatter on this 'secret weapon' of yours, _Hideki Matsuyama had warned in his somber, reserved way from Kyoto. Of her three intelligence heads from that part of Earth…all of whom, by nature, were power-hungry and treacherous to some degree…he was the one she trusted the most. The best barometer, as it were, a canary in a coal mine. If Matsuyama was worried, then Delacourt was too. _It is as if every hacker and criminal on Earth not only knows of it, but is determined to steal it._

The other two, Salim al-Hassani and Iphegenia Lowry, had provided confirmation. Someone, somewhere, had spread the wild rumor that Secretary Delacourt possessed some super-weapon to deal, once and for all, with Earth's endless uprisings, insurrections, and illicit voyages to Elysium. It was all over the various networks like some new, virulent plague.

As Olga obediently brought in a steaming cup of rich espresso, Jessica couldn't help but smirk. _They may think I have some game-changing weapon…_she sipped at the brew…_but they have no idea what, or rather, _who_ it is._

She stood from her vast chrome and glass desk, feeling like a menagerie animal kept too long in too small a cage. There would be more than enough sitting time today, and she needed to stretch her legs. Back and forth she walked, feeling the effects of the premium coffee already coursing through her body. There was so little time left to herself these days, with the stepped-up security and the endless meetings, not to mention her role as Lorelei's guardian…

Jessica stopped before her panoramic office window, not even bothering to admire the glowing, distant blue sphere of Earth in the distance. Instead, her attention was focused, laserlike, on the tiny espresso cup in her hand, tendrils of steam curling up from the finely wrought Limoges china. If someone had walked in on her then, even Olga, they might have noticed her delicate features were creased in an uncharacteristic scowl. It was Lorelei, of course, and not the rumors of Earthly revolution, which caused her the most grief these days. Her niece wasn't a little girl anymore…and she was already giving sneak previews of what were sure to be rebellious teenage years. She and Lorelei hadn't spoken since their argument the night before, though Jessica had left several messages on the girl's comlink, all of which had gone unanswered. It didn't bother her as such…Agent Smith always watched over her like a hawk, and would have informed her at the slightest whisper of trouble…yet something was bothering her, an itch she, even in her position of power and prestige, couldn't quite scratch.

_Am I just as negligent a parent as my sister?_

There was no easy way to answer the question. In her heart, Jessica desperately wanted to believe it was an emphatic "no." She had kept Lorelei safe for five years, provided extravagantly for her, even gently started to nudge her niece into the kind of skilled, specialized training she would need as a future leader on the torus.

And yet something was missing, like a small pinch of some ingredient that might make a bland dish worth eating. How well did she really know Lorelei? The girl spent almost all her free time in Smith's company or in those damned sims, or else with her friends from school. With Jessica herself routinely working eighteen-hour days, and Lorelei almost always out of the house, that left precious little time for the kind heart-to-heart, mother-daughter, touchy-feely moments made so popular in the holo-dramas. Like so many other things, they were desperate stabs for a kind of world that had all but ceased to exist.

Jessica chuckled bitterly at the mere thought. She could remember a time when that world still existed…barely. It wasn't as if she had much practice in the way of mothering; her own parents had been distant, aloof workaholics who had only produced children as a kind of civic duty. They'd only ever been interested in her as a vessel to carry on the family name and establish a thousand-year dynasty on the torus, then in its construction stages.

_It may not have been exactly the way they planned, but I achieved a sort of immortality, didn't I? _

She took another sip of the espresso, which had cooled just enough not to scald her tongue. When she looked up, a tiny contrail caught her eye; it was a gunship flying out of the Hub and down to some unknown location on Earth. Even from where she stood, Jessica recognized its distinctively sleek silhouette. A _Rook_, one of the newest models. All week, there had been more CCB in-and-out activity than usual as Elysium prepared for its annual gala. Patel, and most of the council, had been none too pleased to learn of her allocation of a hundred or so agents to provide beefed-up security for the event. Even this morning, in her daily briefing, he'd berated her about it again.

"I am currently occupied with," he paused for a moment, peeved, as if to count off on his fingers, "a new terrorist cell in Kazakhstan, the ongoing Pan-Asian trade union negotiations, and all the usual fires to be put out, and you are assigning agents to serve canapés and champagne at a party, Secretary?"

Glibly, she'd reassured him. "In terms of uproar, those are nothing compared to what the citizens of this habitat would do if you, Mr. President, decided to cancel this festivity after fifty years of tradition. You'd have a revolt on your hands. Besides, you know all your best and most loyal donors will be in attendance…and I do believe your re-election is next year?"

He hadn't been thrilled, but he'd agreed in the end. The gala would go on as scheduled…even if agents were being pulled from the battlefronts in order to provide the security.

A hundred CCB agents…just to prevent one of their own comrades from attending.

That was her dark, nasty little secret: the kind of thing she would never disclose to Patel, the council, or even her own family. It was the sort of terrible burden that weighed upon her shoulders even more than any rumor of war or hacker cell ever could. Since that terrible night five years ago, Jessica had spent every waking moment terrified that one day Lorelei's path would once again cross with that of C.M. Kruger. Though she had gone to nearly superhuman lengths to ensure it wouldn't happen, that particular genie was out of the bottle, and it might prove impossible to put back. Even if Lorelei had undergone a memory wipe and five years in the tutelage of the finest Gen 1 agents available, Jessica still couldn't help but think that Kruger waited around every corner on the torus, just waiting to once again claim his golden prize.

Another sip. Even the brew reminded her of the bearded man…dark, bitter, exotic, and irresistible all at once. She wondered where Kruger was right now. Perhaps flaying someone alive, or else screwing a girl senseless. That seemed like a safe bet. She'd known him for well over a hundred years now, and he had never changed despite the chaos around him. It must have been family tradition to harbor such a peculiar love-hate feeling, for she often found her thoughts on him, even if he were a murderous, raping thug.

_But I'm a murderous, raping thug with charisma, right, girl? _Jessica could almost hear his raspy, coarsely accented voice speaking in her ear, and the shock nearly caused her to drop the half-empty cup in her hand. Even from thousands of kilometers away, the mere thought of Kruger could still elicit an icy shudder down her spine. He had that effect on people.

"Madame Secretary?" The voice was the very opposite of Kruger's…cool, soft, neutral, feminine…and it still caused her to jump. Olga, of course. Jessica mentally reminded herself to schedule a therapy session the next time she had a free hour. Trying to keep the shakiness from her own voice, she spoke into the comlink.

"Yes, Olga, what is it?"

"Dr. Roi-Schultz's shuttle just arrived; she wants to see you if you're available. Shall I show her in?"

Jessica laughed dryly. It had to be either an extraordinary coincidence that, the moment she'd been contemplating therapy to rid herself of the specter of Kruger, the finest psychoanalyst on the torus should arrive. _The universe has its little sense of irony. _"Of course. And prepare some of that green tea she likes," she ordered, knowing the droid would know exactly which one.

The doctor's visit would be something to do with Lorelei, of course. Though Perrine was an old friend, all their conversations of late had become strained, as if they were two grandmasters trying to outwit one another at chess instead of a pair of women who had known each other since before the torus had been built. Instead of amity, there was "oppositional-defiant" and "histrionic" and "early antisocial symptoms." All because Lorelei had the misfortune to run into Kruger and ruin her own life, along with everyone else's.

_Agent Kruger, you truly poison everything you touch, don't you? _she asked silently.

_Just doing my job, sweetheart, _his equally silent voice responded.

"Jessica? Are you quite all right?"

When she turned around, Dr. Perrine Roi-Schultz was staring at her in that curious way of hers, like a little sparrow appraising a choice morsel of bread. With her short, dark hair, conservatively cut but stylish suit, and petite frame, the psychiatrist had always resembled a songbird. In the same way of Agent Smith, she was also frustratingly hard to read…a quality most of the surviving Gen 1 agents all shared.

"Fine," Jessica said less convincingly than she would have liked. "I take it you're here to give me an update on Lorelei?"

Perrine took a seat on the plush leather divan, still unreadable and distant. She inhaled sharply, then spoke the very last words Jessica would have expected to hear. "I can't keep seeing her, Jessica. What Lorelei really needs is a friend, not an analyst. Today, during our session, she barely even spoke to me. It is like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands, and," she paused, displaying the tiniest crack in her careful composure, "I feel my involvement with her was a mistake from the start."

"I'll double what I'm paying you now," Jessica promised immediately, concern for Lorelei outweighing any concern of where she'd manage to find that amount of credits. "She's just going through a difficult time right now, Perrine. If you'll only be patient with her…"

The other woman shook her head stubbornly. "There is a reason I never studied child psychiatry in great depth. It is a difficult field to master, perhaps even more difficult than my own. Children are strange, mysterious creatures, Jessica, and I don't pretend to understand them. And your Lorelei is, as you know, very different than most children. Why do you think I never became a mother? Some of us are simply not wired that way. It is not meant to be for us."

If Perrine had landed a punch to Jessica's midsection, it might have produced the same effect. This couldn't be happening. Perrine, along with Garrett Smith, had been one of the only anchors holding Lorelei down for five years, preventing her from drifting off into the ether. And her barely disguised subtext about some people not being meant for motherhood…

"You have to," Jessica begged. "Please, Perrine. She needs these sessions; you know what happened to her with Kruger. And it will only get worse as she gets older."

"Then I can gladly recommend another analyst," Perrine said coolly. "Agent Jimenez is excellent with children; she was the top of her class at Johns Hopkins. I sat on the panel that judged her thesis. Or perhaps Agent Frankweiller; he is young, but certainly capable."

_Why didn't she tell me before? Why now, at the worst possible time? _"Then what can I possibly do to convince you?"

Perrine regarded her. Though they were physically polar opposites, in her own way the analyst reminded Jessica eerily of Kruger: those dark eyes that seemed to see right through a person, the tight, stubborn set of her jaw, the aura of confidence. She was also a Gen 1 agent, one of a handful still both alive and active in the field. They survived for a reason. That reason was usually self-preservation. After what seemed like forever, she spoke again. "You can agree to terminate the Project once and for all. I've said it before, Jessica, and I'll say it again: there are limits as to what we are meant to do. Are we meant to live forever, you and I? Is anyone? Look at me," she said, "and answer me honestly, for old times' sake."

If the shock of Perrine's threat to quit had been a small pebble thrown into a pond, this question was an enormous boulder. If Jessica hadn't possessed years of experience in hiding her emotions, she might have gasped in surprise. As it was, she merely smirked. "You know that's impossible. Literally billions off the record have gone into it, not to mention a goodly investment from Armadyne's side of things. This entire habitat would collapse. Our future would be gone, Perrine," she said, voice breaking at this last. "She _is _our future. She may not be perfect, but," Jessica searched for the right turn of phrase, "what in this world really is? Our world is the closest mankind has ever gotten to perfection…and still we find flaws in our midst. Look at my sister, for God's sake. Billions of credits spent, and she is still an addict after all these years. Lorelei is different. I'm begging you to reconsider."

Something…perhaps the maternal side of Jessica's plea…must have at last moved Perrine's icy resolve. The dark-haired woman sighed deeply. "I'll continue our work, but Lorelei must follow my instructions. No more of this flightiness. And we, along with Agent Smith, will need to discuss the future of the Project at our next meeting," she said.

"Fine." Jessica was used to short-term placation and the art of delay; they were skills she had to use every day. "I'll talk to Lorelei, make sure she understands your conditions. After the Fete, of course."

Perrine, being a woman of naturally few words, nodded curtly and left the office, no doubt to interview some high-ranking Earth criminal, or perhaps a wayward CCB agent. There was always a need for someone to combat the many malignancies of the human mind.

There was Kruger's leering, bearded face in her mind's eye again. He always made appearances at the worst possible times, Jessica realized. _But without me, _the phantom, gravelly voice purred to her, _you're as good as fucking lost, eh?_

Jessica realized she still had to figure out a way to keep Kruger away from what was sure to be as tempting a draw as rotten meat to flies. One more ball among the dozens she had to juggle every day. That couldn't be so hard.

She spoke into the intercom again. "Olga, get me Agent Novakovic on the conference call," she ordered, referring to the deputy commandant of the agent corps on the torus. "He should be back from Nairobi by now…"

~~s~~

"She should be back by now."

Sprawled on top of her bed, Lorelei realized she was speaking out loud, even if there was no one else in the room. She'd spent the last hour or so in a haze of distraction, texting her friends back and forth, worrying about what Aunt Jessica would say when she got home today, and most of all, trying to keep her contraband comm pad hidden from Mr. Smith. That was the real reason her nerves felt like drops of grease on a hot skillet.

_I'll be there, _J.F. Drake had assured her in their last exchange. _You'll know me for sure._

The party was tomorrow night. Lorelei didn't know whether she felt more terrified or excited, or maybe equal parts of each. After all this time, she'd finally be meeting her mysterious pen pal. Nobody knew. Not her aunt, or Mr. Smith, even her best friends. It had been so much on her mind that even Dr. Perrine had mentioned it today.

_You're acting very distracted today, Lorelei. Perhaps you'd like to talk about it?_

She didn't, of course. She almost never wanted to talk to her counselor anymore. If she ever had to begin with. Dr. Perrine didn't understand her like Mr. Smith did. When she was in that room, Lorelei felt like some poor little animal in a lab, a creature to be studied and analyzed, not loved. They had never bonded in a meaningful way, and she positively dreaded the daily visits to that sterile office. Aunt Jessica wasn't much better, of course. Lorelei still hadn't talked to her since last night, when they'd fought. She'd gotten the texts, of course, and probably Mr. Smith had too, but chose to ignore all of them. That served her aunt right for being so, so…

Mean? No, Lorelei realized. It was much more than that. She just didn't _understand. _She wasn't the one with a huge chunk of her memories simply not there.

A soft tap at her door. It was Mr. Smith, of course, but at least he respected her privacy. "Just making sure you're still doing your homework, Miss Delacourt," came his baritone voice.

"Of course. Just finishing my essay," Lorelei chirped a bit too enthusiastically. It was a bald-faced lie, and she hated lying to him. She hadn't even gotten started on her analysis of _Great Expectations_, and frankly didn't care what happened to Pip and Estella and all their chums. They weren't even real. What was happening tomorrow night was so much more exciting than any book could ever be. Lorelei was already composing a list of all the things she wanted to ask Drake, when she finally met him face to face. What did he do for a living? Did he have a family? And then there was the big one, the queen mother of all the questions.

_Do you know what happened to me, and why I can't remember?_

Just the thought of it was exciting. Lorelei hadn't been excited, really excited, for a long time. There had been moments: the times she'd hacked past the many layers of Elysium's cybersecurity, the first day she'd won in the sims, her outings with her friends. Most of the time, though, she felt scrutinized and controlled, like one of the specimens on a slide in the lab at school. If it wasn't her aunt trying to do the string-pulling, then it was Dr. Perrine. Even Mr. Smith did his fair share of that. Despite the bond she'd developed with him, Lorelei was no fool. He was her bodyguard first and foremost.

The crazy thing was, she had no one to share her secret with. Who did you tell when you were about to step completely, and irrevocably, out of bounds? Weren't best friends supposed to be there for that? Lorelei had considered telling Anila and Esme, of course, but almost immediately dismissed the idea. Anila couldn't keep even minor secrets, and rule-bound Esme was sure to snitch to the adults. Who did that leave?

"Mr. Smith?" she called out to him, knowing he was listening. He had the kind of ultra-sensitive hearing Lorelei had previously reserved for certain kinds of bats. A plan was turning itself over in her head, and though Lorelei didn't quite know how it would come together just yet, it had the markings of something special. "Do you mind if I go outside for a little while? Just to have some fresh air?"

"Of course, Miss Delacourt."

That was another thing Lorelei liked about Mr. Smith: he almost never turned down a reasonable request, unlike Dr. Perrine or Aunt Jessica. As she passed him coming out her bedroom door, though, he looked down at her with the strangest expression, as if he was amused by some private joke. "Did…I do something wrong?" Lorelei asked nervously. Even to an untrained observer, it would be obvious she was keyed up about something, and her mentor had well over a hundred years of experience.

Garrett Smith blinked solemnly. "Is there something you want to tell me, Miss Delacourt?"

_You have no idea how much I want to tell you. _Instead, Lorelei put on her best fake smile, the kind her mother often used. "Oh. No, I'm fine," she said far too enthusiastically. If his biometric implants did what she thought they might, no doubt he was picking up on her insincerity. Anila had once claimed the agents could detect when someone was lying, and Lorelei had believed it ever since. "Just need to get away from Dickens, you know?"

Blink, blink. As unreadable as an ancient Buddhist scroll to her. "I'll come with you. I've always liked your aunt's garden," he said.

Since Lorelei couldn't say no, and had already used the sudden bathroom break excuse earlier that day, there would have to be another plan. As Mr. Smith himself had once told her, the best strategists always came up with more than one idea. She'd just have to figure out another way to get rid of him for a minute or two.

~~s~~

"Lovely flowers, these," Mr. Smith murmured as they passed yet another bed of exquisitely tended blooms. "I thought these were extinct. They must have revived them through the labs, like so many others."

Lorelei was barely listening. All she could think about was the little comm pad tucked into the inside of her school blazer, and how much her fingers were itching to grab for it. Secrets were no fun unless they could be shared. "Maybe," she said, stopping to admire the little white blossoms. They were pretty, in an understated kind of way. "Do you know what they're called, by any chance?"

"Of course. _Hernandia drakeana_. Used to be all over Polynesia."

Either the name was the strangest coincidence ever, or Mr. Smith _knew_. It was all Lorelei could do to stop from reacting. Had he been spying on her all along, reading her texts to and from J.F. Drake? If he did, he either didn't care or was waiting for the right moment. Had he been passing it along to her aunt, too? _That's impossible, _Lorelei told herself. _If Aunt Jessica knew about that, she'd lock my room and throw away the key. There's no way. _But then again, her aunt seemed to operate on a different level of secrecy than most people. Another of Mr. Smith's favorite maxims was that a great warrior always used patience, waited for the right time.

Not knowing the truth was almost as painful as having to keep a secret all to yourself.

"Oh. That's interesting," Lorelei said, desperate to change the subject. "So, Mr. Smith, are you coming to the Fete tomorrow night? What are you dressing as?"

He smiled at that. "Of course. Where you go, I go; you know that, Miss Delacourt." No surprise there. "As for a costume, well, let's just have it be a mystery until then."

She was about to ask him if he knew any other agents, especially ones called Drake, but decided against it. It wasn't a good idea to be too obvious with this plan, and Mr. Smith was the sort of man who could always see ten moves ahead. "I don't know, either. My mother usually picks something out, and knowing her, it'll be _pink_," she complained. "But I think I'll surprise everyone this year, you know? Maybe go as an agent, like you!"

This time, Agent Smith really did laugh, a rarity for him. "That, I'd pay good credits to see. But you know your aunt will never allow it, much less your mother. You have some interesting ideas sometimes. Maybe you'd better spend less time at the training center with me and more time on your other studies. Otherwise I'm apt to get in trouble with your aunt, and she's not a woman I like to see angry."

A thousand ideas were now spinning off in different directions in Lorelei's mind, each with a tantalizing end destination. She would need a little ingenuity, some degree of luck, and perfect timing, not to mention her friends' help, to pull it off.

Most importantly, she'd need her mother's special mascara, and lots of it.

_To Be Continued_


	8. Darkness, My Old Friend

Chapter 8

**Author's Notes: This chapter was not written by me, but rather by the fabulous, amazing, truly gifted Leave Your Sanity at the Door, whose writing it would be criminal to miss. I'm so grateful to her. In fact, I'd send her a Kruger strip-o-gram if such a thing existed.**

As usual, Lorelei awoke to find her feet pounding concrete. The difference this time, however, was that she wasn't alone, with just herself and her pursuer racing through desolate landscapes and deserted cities. This time, there was life in abundance – a vibrant, bustling metropolis, full of noise and spectacle. Yet the place may as well have been dead; stopping to ask or beg for help simply wasn't an option. She knew she had to keep running, just keep running, because no one else could save her. And the crowds, appearing sympathetic to her plight, were letting her through, making no attempt to either stop her or to offer aid.

It only occurred to her that she was running in backless sandals when she felt one somehow dislodge itself. She cursed aloud. Without stopping to glance behind or take in more of her current surroundings, she hurriedly kicked off the other one and resumed running, not caring how much it would ache later.

Through crowds. Past a row of shops, all open for business in this strange city that appeared never to sleep. A hundred conversations. The heavy bass of music. People moving aside for her, clad in bright colors distorted into further unreal tones by the nighttime lighting. Fluorescent, LED, neon and halogen mingling into one blurred stream as the momentum carried her. Cold air lashing her ears, scraping lightning-fast against her neck.

Could she run forever, she wondered? Could she just sprint on and on indefinitely with a bottomless resource of adrenaline, if need be? Had she escaped her captor yet? The dark, hooded figure? If not, where was he? Being so much stronger, faster, and knowledgeable than her, wouldn't – no, _shouldn't_ \- he have caught her by now? Could it be that he was _letting_ her get away?

That last thought proved her undoing; because, for the first time, it made her stop. And she shouldn't have stopped.

~~s~~

She had been here before, somehow, she knew.

The whole place stood empty, void of all life. The air within it, vaporous and unnaturally still; unnaturally still, like a predatory animal waiting to pounce. This wasn't right. Was there also a possible sense of danger – the sense all too familiar with uncharacteristically empty places - the fear of the unknown, the creeping suspicion of a malevolent figure lurking in the shadows or waiting patiently behind a closed door, preying on the unsuspecting victim? Was she genuinely afraid, or had she just stayed up late too many nights watching old but scary Earth films?

Was there someone after _her_? And... could she even recall how she had ended up here? What about what was happening before? It was if she had instantly materialized here; standing in what appeared to be an extremely fancy roadway underpass, or a corridor of what looked like some top secret government military or scientific facility. She couldn't remember anything, and her mind raced.

_Of course; I must be asleep, and dreaming. This has to be a sort of lucid dream, like Mr. Smith talks about. Well, at least that means I'm safe._

Lorelei looked down her body, noting the same clothes she'd worn when she went to bed; oversized t-shirt, PT shorts, and bare feet. Yet, she distinctly recalled wearing sandals, for some reason. _Sandals, in bed?_ Perhaps she had just fallen asleep without removing them...

A sudden chill filled the captive air, enough to cause an involuntary shudder and raise goose pimples on her bare arms and legs. Hmm... Maybe she could dream herself into wearing something more practical, along with some shoes? She imagined it, but nothing happened. Another time, but again to no avail. Once more... nothing. _So you couldn't control everything within a lucid dream? Mr. Smith was always insisting._ She hugged herself, trying to warm her upper arms through friction alone. It would have to do.

The walls of the corridor were an uncompromising black, and smooth to the touch - glassy like a polished marble ornament - with a cold, bare floor to match. And their surface seemed somehow unreal, dynamic; it was as if she could press her palm into them and they would undulate to take the pressure. She pressed. They didn't budge. _So much for that, then._ Indeed, this dream couldn't be controlled. Maybe that was commonplace for novice lucid dreamers? Mr. Smith had years of practice, after all.

Above her, in the center of the ceiling – also black - a long thin line of graceful LED pin-hole stars spanning the entire length of the corridor. Below, a continuous row of the same pin-hole illuminations running alongside the left and right walls, but emitting a softer glow. She wheeled in a swift about-face, scoping out her surroundings. It looked identical either way. She appeared to be right in the middle of the walkway; with a good hundred yards behind and in front of her, each eventually forking at right angles. No doors anywhere, apparently; at least, no obvious ones. _Just where the hell was this place?_ It vaguely reminded her of somewhere, although she couldn't quite place it; a photo, a movie, a music video or maybe even another distant dream.

She began nervously whistling to herself before the utter silence could do her in. Or maybe her whistling proved that it already had? No, there was nothing to be afraid of here; this was a dream and if she knew she was asleep then she could easily wake herself up. Hadn't she thought that _before_, though, she heard herself think?

Shivers gripping her lithe body, she began treading slowly and softly along the spacious corridor, her ears finely tuned to pick up any tiny particle of noise. Yet, she heard nothing, save her breathing and the slight echo of her footsteps. Bare feet against a silken, glass-like surface. Empty.

"Hello..?"

Her voice bounced off the walls and quickly dissipated. Certainly seemed there was no one else about.

Then why did she sense a presence behind her?

_Don't look._

No, she was imagining things. She would turn around and no one would be there, because-

Wrong; it had already been proved that she wasn't able to exert full control over this dream.

But she _could_ wake herself up.

The hairs on the back of her neck were now standing at full attention. The presence was still there, deathly still, deathly silent. Awaiting her acknowledgement.

She wasted a few moments arguing with herself. _Ignore it. Don't ignore. Reality logic vs dream logic._ She shouldn't be scared. She had every reason to be scared. All the while, the presence didn't waver.

So, what was she going to do?

"If there's anyone there, please answer me," she said slowly, carefully, trying to feign calmness.

No answer. Just the dark walls, carrying her voice away.

"Please, just answer yes or no."

Still no answer.

Turn around. Don't turn around. Walk on. Stay put.

_Decide already!_

Okay. At the count of three, she would turn around. She would rather know than waste time prevaricating.

One... Two... Three...

A beautiful sense of relief filled her. No one there after all.

Well then, she couldn't now just stand around and hope for the action – whatever it was, if it even existed – to come to her. She had to go exploring. This being a dream, the chances of finding something out of the ordinary weren't so remote.

Her footsteps, although slow, brought her to the end of the corridor, which then forked. The corridors to her left and right stood predictably vacant. The lighting gradually faded into nothingness as they stretched on perhaps another hundred yards either way, so beyond a certain point it was impossible to estimate just how far each direction went.

Fear the dark. Fear the unknown. There was evil in the dark. Someone waiting for her.

No. She wasn't five years old anymore. And she could wake up whenever she chose to.

Why five years old, specifically, though?

No matter. Just a figure of speech.

Out of instinct rather than cold, she hugged herself again. A telling reaction, possibly.

_No._

The right corridor was merely a wall, but ten feet down in the left one was an imposing, stainless steel door that resembled the entrance to a walk-in vault. She turned left. When she reached the door she noticed the absence of handles, and the presence of an electronic lock. She pushed the door anyway; miracles happened in dreams. No such luck in this one.

Lorelei punched a random six-digit code into the lock, feeling it was futile, and being proved right. There could be an infinite number of sequences and numbers. So what should she do now; continue left or turn right? For some unknown reason her intuition told her to go right, so she did. As far as was visible, there appeared to be no other doors on the left, so she had nothing to lose by going in the other direction.

She walked on and on down the right-hand corridor, staying close to the wall for reference and trailing her hand along its liquid-smooth surface, her fingertips enjoying the cool, pleasing sensation. It helped detract from the chill air surrounding her. But then, the lights started becoming dimmer and dimmer, and the wall's surface colder, until it seemed to be constructed from sheet ice itself, and she had to bring her fingers away for fear of them sticking. She felt the darkness closing in on her... and then, complete blackness. Dead space.

A chill ran through her entire body.

Yet she was undeterred, if only for the sake of doing _something_ rather than just standing there. She wasn't going to let fear stop her or force her to turn back.

Although it seemed to stretch on forever, to her surprise, the corridor came abruptly to an end after another hundred yards of pure darkness, and more LED lights immediately flickered on. A staircase, the same material, color and width as the walkway.

She climbed fifteen steps, counting them as she went, after which the staircase turned. Another fifteen.

Another flight of thirty steps, at the top of which she was faced with a set of stainless steel double doors. Unlike the ones downstairs, these doors had no electronic lock, but were instead fitted with a series of heavy-duty industrial deadbolts, which looked more tedious than difficult to undo. If she had a key, that was.

Well, she had nothing to lose. She'd chance it. Maybe dream luck would be on her side this time.

The bolts were completely rust-free. But like the walls and air, they were icy-cold to the touch, heavy, and stiff, as if they had not been used since their construction.

With monumental effort, Lorelei managed to pull them free of their trappings. After the last one was unlocked, she pressed her palms against the chill metal, and with all her strength pushed the weighty doors apart-

…and stepped outside into complete nothing.

but the vast emptiness of space. Space without movement, without sound, without visible matter, without scent. Just stars.

Except for those stars, as far as the eye could see everything was a breathy expanse of blanket darkness; a bizarre paradox of airiness and claustrophobia. She stepped forwards, and the double doors swung closed behind her with a huge _swoosh_, sweeping a gust of dark air inwards. She swung round, as if expecting the doors to open at her command so she could retreat back in. But they remained shut, having neither an electronic nor manual lock with which to open them. A waterfall of crisp white light descended from the hooded light tube above the doors, forming a wide puddle of artificial brightness on the concrete ground beneath. The building she had exited stood virtually as dark as the sky, its presence identified only by the doors.

_What now?_ She could either slip around the side of the building and try to find another way in – perhaps there was something to find in there if she would only do some more exploring? - or she could venture forwards into the darkness. _Into the unknown._ Why did she feel so much more inclined towards the latter? She bit her bottom lip, unable to come up with an answer.

_Flash!_

What was that?

At that present moment she became terribily aware of how alone and isolated she was in that vast, dark space. She felt like a lone astronaut on a distant planet, or a solitary wanderer lost in unfamiliar mountainous terrain, searching for any signs of moving, breathing life.

_Flash!_

_That_ was the answer, there in the far distance – a beacon – a bright white strobe light signaling out to anyone lost in the blackness. All of a sudden she wanted to run to that light, to be where that light was, to reach its source, to touch it, to know she wasn't alone out here. She would reach it and someone would find her. It was a feeling that cried out for something to break through the stillness to disrupt the peace and make everything explode into a frenzy of light and activity.

She walked briskly forwards, then broke into a run, desperate to reach that enigmatic light in the distance. Again, a peculiar feeling of deja vu crept over her. Either something to do with running. Or strobe.

Pitch blackness surrounded her, punctuated by the constant flashes of white light far in the distance. With every step she felt her nervous excitement build. She looked back and saw the light outside the building she had just left, dwindling, so far, far behind her. She must have been running faster than she had originally thought.

That light gave Lorelei hope. Once she reached it she would find a clue; something which would point her in the direction of the life she so desperately sought. She had to find someone and prove that she was not entirely desolate in that endless night. She wanted to be where the action was, with fellow wanderers who had also found themselves in that building and had gone out into the darkness to learn that they were completely alone, and had followed that beacon to discover a haven, a sanctuary, beyond.

Her pace quickened to a sprint. The air whipped past her as she propelled herself forward, running on and on, ignoring her labored breath, the stitch in her side and the protests from her limbs, which she found odd to be feeling, given that this was a dream. The quicker she got to that light, the quicker she would find the object of her quest.

So she continued to run, as fast as her legs could carry her, until she tripped over a small, hard object – it felt like a brick – on the ground and ended up stumbling sideways into a huge gate and landing on her side with a dull thud. Her right shoulder flared with pain as she gripped the thick metal railings to steady herself and rise. She just thanked her lucky stars the object that tripped her up had been there to prevent her from running head first into those railings. It was fortunate that only her right shoulder had taken the impact, because it could have been much, much worse.

_It shouldn't be hurting at all, though, should it?_

Regardless, something like that had to be fate, or at the very least, incredibly good luck.

But where the hell did those gates come from? Wouldn't the flashing light have illuminated them? Or maybe she had simply been too busy, too distracted by the light and what she hoped it meant, to notice anything else? The gates had been there all the time and she had been too preoccupied to see them, or the object on the ground.

But now she could see them clearly, and the vast sea of darkness on the other side.

She walked left, trailing her fingers along the railings, in hope of finding a latch, a gate, any way to get in. And she walked on. And on. And on. From the brief snatches of light, she could see only an endless row of railings both left and right, but nothing indicating a way in. Although to be fair, the flashes were so brief that she didn't really get a chance to see much further than a few feet to each side of her, so there was a good chance that the entrance was there, just out of sight.

She continued left, with no luck. She contemplated going right, but then decided that each direction was as much of a gamble as the other, and again continued left.

But still, her endeavor proved futile. How far did these gates stretch? For all she knew this could be a huge military base, spanning several miles or more. What was she going to do – go left until she reached a wall, or corner, or something, and then run all the way back to where she had started and go right? And what if she still found nothing? How long would this take?

_Fucksake_, she thought, frustrated and annoyed, and also slightly taken aback at her use of the word. She never swore, even when livid, even when torn up with emotion. Yet she had to get past these damn things, even if not being able to get a proper view of them was a major hindrance. She almost felt a sense of despair, as if there was no point in trying, because she could be going on for several kilometers – or "clicks", she recalled, from some forgotten or fathomless place - and still not know if she was nearing an entrance unless she was within a few feet of it.

But what if there was no way in, and her effort had been all in vain? What then? It all boiled down to her being stranded and utterly, harrowingly alone, isolated in this never-ending sea of nothing.

_Nothing._

Trailing her fingertips over the cold metal bars as she walked, Lorelei felt as if she was a character in one of those old post-apocalyptic novels or films - sole survivor in the world, accompanied only by her memories and the suffocating, all-consuming force of the Nothing, or the Sleep; something so potent in its nothingness that it became, paradoxically, alive - the way in which silence could be deafening and pain could be numbing.

But there had to be an entrance somewhere. If she just went on as far as she could, she was bound to come across it, no matter how long it would take and how tedious it would be. If she was going to get past these gates then she had no choice but to continue.

Then, for a reason unknown to her, she swung round.

Although she couldn't see anyone, she knew, with absolute certainty, that someone was there. _Him._ A tall, lean figure, fully dilate pupils hidden under a tattered cowl. She knew not what he wore, only that underneath it was armor fused with sinewy flesh. Yet instead of all-out terror – what she knew she rightly should be feeling – again she was overcome with a peculiar sense of déjà vu. This man was not a stranger to her, and neither she to him. In fact, she got she distinct feeling he knew her more intimately than she could ever imagine.

She stood, frozen in place, simply staring at the invisible form. She sensed, rather than saw, him step away from the railings, and begin to walk in the opposite direction. Automatically, she followed, stopping neither to question why or to try and reason with herself. For all she knew, he could be a mirage leading her into a trap - some amphibious type of male siren, even.

The risk was worth taking, if only not to be alone.

She continued to walk behind where she sensed him to be, at a brisk pace. He never once turned around to check her progress, obviously confident that he was keeping her in tow, enthralled. That, or she was irrelevant to him. She didn't expect him to say anything, and so, she asked no questions.

The flashing light was suddenly blindingly bright, creating the starkest of contrasts between the dense blackness and the lightning whiteness, causing her to squint frantically.

The absence of sound was palpable. In place of crashing, thunderous noise, there was only impossible quiet.

And then, he was facing her, up close and personal. Too close. She was taller somehow, older, in a body that she had no time to come to terms with.

Suddenly, it all came crashing back down upon her.

"Told you you couldn't escape," her night visitor rasped, then smiled his most wolfish smile.

_To Be Continued_


	9. The Man of Her Dreams

Chapter 9

**Author's Notes: First of all, many apologies for the delays. Life happens, as I'm sure you know. I'm so deeply thankful to both Leave Your Sanity at the Door and MauMauKa for their invaluable assistance with this chapter, as well as Krugerstop for her support and feedback. Couldn't have done it without you guys.**

**Be sure to read Chapter 8 before this one. More to come soon!**

Daybreak. It came as predictably on the torus as it did on Earth, through a combination of synchronized orbits and a specially engineered artificial sky, in exact twelve-hour intervals no matter the season on the planet below. Lorelei had heard it all explained in science class, and though she'd understood only certain parts, it was, like most other parts of life on Elysium, simply a given. Just like the pristine air, the crystalline water in endless supply, and the mind-bogglingly large array of foods and drinks available at each meal. She'd grown up knowing only perfection: shiny, beautiful, but ultimately hollow. Everything, from the carefully manicured lawns to the pleats in her school uniform skirt, was in its place. Yet she sensed there was about as much substance to it all as the holographic false cirrus clouds that the engineers sometimes floated overhead to try and add a sense of realism.

Lorelei wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, even Mr. Smith, but she'd long since grown bored with the predictability of it all. It was like living in one of those elaborate cuckoo clocks, with little clockwork people and animals doing precisely what they should, when they should. Even the torus' artificial rain was preprogrammed, and announced well in advance so no one's garden party would get soaked. Paradise was kind of dull, she thought. Unlike most of her fellow students, Lorelei read books about things that weren't symmetrical or carefully measured, like the roughly cratered surfaces of the Moon or Mars, or the wildlife that had survived extinction by quickly adapting to the harsh conditions on Earth.

She was even curious about the stories which were less science and much more rumor and myth: the super-soldiers produced through combining men's DNA with that of other creatures, for example, or the supposed human organ harvesting plants in the decaying megacities of Earth. Anila had even insisted once that there was a top-secret lab somewhere on the torus itself_…_but Lorelei had never come across even a shred of evidence of this, either in person or in her many forays into the cyber-structure of Elysium. It sounded ludicrous, like something out of one of those silly old Earth spy stories. She'd laughed at it, but the idea remained somewhere in the outskirts of her consciousness, like a lingering cobweb. If it was there, she'd find it. She just needed time.

Once, a few years ago in class, Lorelei had asked about what had become her foremost fascination: the actual people on Earth. With so many of them, did they have enough water to drink, or even to bathe? Where did _their_ food come from, and what kind was it? After she'd asked the questions, Lorelei felt oddly self-conscious, like she'd broached a forbidden subject. What studies they did of Earth were carefully structured, and Lorelei always had the strangest feeling that much of it was being censored or left out entirely. Her teacher had dismissed the question almost at once, speaking as if Lorelei were three instead of ten.

"They manage just fine, Miss Delacourt. In fact, Earth provides much in the way of our staple supplies, such as minerals and livestock, and we in turn share our technologies and skilled workers."

Lorelei found the exact passage later in one of her textbooks. The teacher had been quoting verbatim. She certainly hadn't shed any new light on the subject, and, in frustration, the girl had simply turned off the screen in disgust.

This particular morning, school was far from her mind. It was Saturday, normally a day she would have chosen to sleep in. Today, though, Lorelei practically bounced out of her bed. So much to do, and so little time in which to do it. After a quick shower in her spacious private bath, she hurriedly dressed, rehearsing over and over in her mind about what needed to go right today before her meeting with J.F. Drake.

"I'm so pleased to meet you," Lorelei said aloud to her freshly scrubbed and neatly dressed reflection, grinning crazily and offering her hand. No, that wasn't quite right. He'd think she was trying to sell him a cheap used aircar. "_Enchante_," she tried instead, borrowing one of her aunt's favorite words. A curtsy to go with it, then an uncomfortable fit of giggles. That wasn't right, either.

Lorelei stared at herself. What would her longtime correspondent see in her? A casual acquaintance? Better, an apprentice in waiting? Maybe he'd want to take her on all kinds of adventures, down to Earth, or if she were lucky, to the outer mining colonies in the asteroid belt, or the exotic Novoparaiso enclave on the surface of Mars. She stood rakishly, one arm cocked on her hip, imagining herself striking a similar pose on one of the sleek CCB ship's bridges and ordering a course set for some far-flung destination. Almost immediately, her lopsided grin disappeared.

Lorelei was suddenly glad no one else was around, especially someone like Mr. Smith, whom she genuinely liked and respected, or her aunt, whose approval she secretly, deeply craved more than anything in the world. She wasn't an agent, or a warrior, or anything special. Even her own mother often forgot she existed. Her reflection was only that of a girl, a lanky creature who might get knocked down by one strong breeze, if there even were such a thing in her artificial world.

_You're just a little thing, so afraid, aren't you? _

The doppelganger's lips didn't move, but the voice was there…and it wasn't even her own. Reedy, husky, dripping with sarcasm. That was _his _voice. She'd know it anywhere.

"I'm not scared of you," said Lorelei, the tiniest quaver betraying her false courage.

_If you're not afraid, why do you shudder whenever I come close?_

"It's not shuddering." She felt herself doing just that even as she spoke the words. "You're not even real." Another lie.

_I'm more real than anything else in your life. Why won't you admit that?_

Lorelei was shaking all over now, as if her dark visitor were hovering over one shoulder, whispering into her ear. "Leave me alone," she said between clenched teeth.

The reflection danced, shimmering, like a mirage on the hottest Earth day. What had been slight and pale became darker, taller, more menacing. A cowl obscured that craggy face. _You just fucking make me, girl, _came the raspy taunt.

That was all she could take. With all the force her slender body possessed, Lorelei seized the closest object to hand-one of her boots-and pounded it hard against the image in the mirror.

Nothing happened. Not even a crack.

Her dark reflection shifted slightly, and Lorelei imagined she saw a wry smile playing across those shadowed features. He was laughing at her, mocking her.

Again she struck, and again her rage had no effect on either the reflective surface or the figure within it. She still heard that cruel yet amused voice. He was enjoying this. _Not much good at this, are you, sweetheart? _he asked, stroking his chin with one long finger.

Lorelei turned away from the mirror, dropping the improvised weapon and closing her eyes tightly. She frantically tried to remember something happy, anything, to get rid of this monster before her. Mr. Smith's favorite meditation: a single candle flame, burning in an otherwise dark room. She breathed deeply, in and out, picturing that image. When at last she felt calm, Lorelei dared to peek over her shoulder.

The dark other was gone. At least for now.

She sank to her knees on the plush carpet. Right now she needed something tangible to anchor her down, and there seemed to be nothing.

_I have to pull myself together. I can't let Mr. Drake see me like this. He'll think I'm crazy, and enough grown-ups think that about me already._

At that little irony, Lorelei allowed herself a chuckle. Somewhere, either in her mind or in the increasingly blurred boundaries between the real and the imaginary, she thought she heard the wickedly sardonic laugh of her shadow laughing along with, or perhaps, at her.

_I know what's in your head, girl. Never forget that._

Lorelei felt a shudder pass through her slender body, then, just as the boogeyman had disappeared, it was gone.

~~s~~

Five years ago, when he'd unexpectedly had to put together a new team, Kruger had only mentally calculated only a few essential criteria. They had to be highly competent, of course, preferably a Gen 1 or 2 with all the latest upgrades. Since South Africans were disproportionately represented in the CCB's ranks, a fellow countryman was always welcome. Neither Petrov nor Hornberg, both solid and consummate professionals in the deadly arts of the mercenary, hailed from the old country, but they had hidden perks, Kruger knew now. Though both were comparatively young Gen 3s, they were excellent followers, never questioning an order. Better yet, they resembled a pair of stone obelisks while on duty, and even off. Stoic, unreadable…and both knew better than to try and make idle chatter with their leader, who already talked enough for three men when he felt so inclined.

Which was why, when the burly Swede asked the question that morning, Kruger was completely taken aback.

"Something bothering you, boss?" Hornberg said from the pilot box in that deep, rumbling baritone of his.

He must have been thinking of her again. Like all of his favorite drugs, he'd built up an increased tolerance over time, needing higher and more frequent doses of that glowing, otherworldly connection with the sleeping girl over the years until it was he practically needed it intravenously. Kruger realized it had been nearly a fortnight since he'd last gotten this particular fix. For a man who was already a connoisseur of all things illicit, it was the highest of highs. His Sleeping Beauty, he thought wickedly whenever he was at her bedside. He'd observed how her gentle, rhythmic breathing suddenly hitched and her whole body tensed when he took her hand, before swiftly returning to normal. Fascinating. She would stir, sometimes, even murmur something that might have been his name had he imagined it. What was she feeling, he wondered? What effect was _he_having on _her_? His precious little princess, with her cornsilk blonde hair and her sweetly scented skin; he wouldn't be the prince to show her Happy Ever After. Oh, no. He would corrupt her, ruin her beyond all redemption…and he would love every moment of it. If she did, too, all the better for it.

Often, he wondered about her dreams, and whether they mirrored his, which had grown clearer and sharper with every passing year. In them, she was sometimes still a child, sometimes fully grown. He had held her hands, kissed her and, depending on her age, gone much further. He had also chased her through one forbidding landscape after another, a wolf in pursuit of some helpless creature. The fact that she seemed utterly terrified only made it more thrilling. When he caught up to her, as he always did, she gave in - in the versions when she was older, at least - and surrendered like a good girl should. Most times after those, he woke up hard as a rail spike, and took great delight in continuing the fantasy until he brought himself to blissful release.

"Fuck, no," Kruger snapped, returning to the moment and feigning indifference to Hornberg's question. "Keep on course." They were on their way back to the torus from the agency spaceport in Dubai, normally a twenty-minute hop at most. Every mile that passed, it was as if he could sense her golden presence drawing closer. Maybe he had been salivating. It wouldn't surprise him. Two weeks away had only whetted his already voracious appetite.

He knew why he'd been kept away and sent into ever more dangerous situations. The ice-mare, that bitch she called an aunt, wanted it so. His educated guess was that maybe they were onto him by now; she, Smith, and the girl's shrink, much as he'd like to think otherwise, were not stupid. They were Gen 1s, like him, and Gen 1s were nobody's fool. Kruger suppressed a growl. He'd been painstakingly careful. Used that cloak every single time, made sure to arrange his nighttime visits around personal leave. So how _had _they known, if in fact they did know? And what was their endgame if they were playing it so coy with him?

The Raven shuddered as it passed through the hottest layers of Earth's atmosphere, but Kruger barely noticed. He'd made this journey thousands of times. Today seemed different, though, as if the ship were hurtling toward something…what?

Kruger searched for the right word. "Unknown" was as good as any, though in his long years of service, he'd seen nearly everything under the sun, and was no longer shocked or surprised by anything. At some point, though, he knew the connection with the girl might reach an end, and he hated to admit he hadn't planned that far. She'd be hidden from him, out of his reach for good when and if her dear auntie got wise to what was really happening. That was a disaster waiting to happen, since not only would he have to find some new favorite drug, and worse, he'd counted on the girl being exactly his type in another six or seven years, when she'd be able to give herself willingly, fully and completely to him. He'd make the dreams a reality for her, and much more. His lips curled up in a wicked, wolfish grin at that pleasant thought.

_But until then, I can keep enjoying myself. Until then, I'll milk it for every drop it's worth. _

Someone, either the ship's automated computer voice or Petrov, announced that they were five minutes away from the torus. Kruger wasn't paying attention. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Not only would he be getting a much-needed fix, he'd be doing it in front of half the torus' population, in plain sight. To him, the forbidden and taboo had always been as irresistible as fresh blood to sharks. The girl would be fully awake; Kruger wondered with a surge of excitement if perhaps that would increase the powerful rush. Would she scream? Sigh in ecstasy? Other than the inadvertent connection she'd brought about when she was much younger - his first introduction to the strange golden sensation - all his sessions with her, out of necessity, had taken place while she slept. And he'd grown so much more appreciative over time. He'd been desperately craving a high to top his previous hits, and this was it.

The best part of it was, no one would ever know it was him. Gaining entry to a party he hadn't been invited to would be tricky, but far from impossible for someone like him. Furthermore, the idea of trespassing filled him with glee. He'd initially planned to use the invisibility cloak like he always did, but thanks to that idiot Tselios, now he had an even better disguise. A newer generation Prosopos face-changing app, like so many other things invented by the CCB but perfected by the black market. Illegal, of course, and very hard to get…but somehow the younger man had just happened to have it, along with the dossier of a MIA South African agent named Stocks with roughly the same height, build, and accent. Even had a beard, fucking A. The planets must have been in the right alignment, because he'd practically begged Kruger to take it before they parted ways. It wouldn't have surprised Kruger if the kid had offered to give a blowjob to boot, had he asked for one. That thought was enough for a wry smile.

As for the girl, there was always time to go back and visit her at night if things got out of control. His smile widened.

"I owe you one, Drakey," he muttered under his breath. _Wouldn't have found out about this fucking party if not for you and your new underling._

"What was that, boss?"

"Shut up. Just head for my place, Horny."

Technically, Kruger and his men had never been banned from Elysium in the years following the Incident. Quite the opposite; the Bureau needed them far more than they needed it, and they were in constant demand to deal with Earth's never-ending series of troubles. They still made frequent trips to and from the torus. However, they were always shadowed by Homeland Praetorians on these official visits, as if the ice-mare were afraid they'd try and kidnap her precious niece. The Raven was always assigned to dock at the furthest possible point from the residential zones. However, they could, and did, keep plenty of secrets from him, this party being only the latest.

_They're not the only ones who can keep their fucking secrets, eh?_

Below the ship, the velvety blackness of space had been replaced with the emerald lawns and sparkling clear lakes of an Elysian residential sector. Somewhere down there was their intended destination. "Put the ship down. I'll meet you two at the rendezvous point," Kruger ordered his pilot.

"You sure, boss?" It was Petrov, and he sounded about as surprised as Kruger had ever heard him.

Annoyed, Kruger glared at his men, and both flinched noticeably. "Just land the fucking ship. I need to do something personal, and it won't take long. Understood?"

Hornberg nodded, and, without another word, immediately circled the Raven overhead before landing ever so carefully on the broad, sculpted lawn, making sure not to leave any scorch marks. Kruger pulled on his armored vest out of pure habit. Even if he didn't really need it here, he'd feel naked without its comforting weight. The Gen 1s who were still alive hadn't survived this long by being careless. The ramp lowered, and without breaking a stride, Kruger trotted outside into the bright world.

Squinting, his black eyes quickly adjusted to the light as the Raven quickly flew away. The journey itself may have failed to awe him, but no matter how many times he experienced it, Kruger always seemed pleasantly surprised at the contrast between this atmosphere and the toxic, smoggy witch's brew on the planet below. He breathed in deeply, his senses tingling as the pure, clean air mingled with his bloodstream.

In a way, that first lungful of air was almost as good as the golden connection. Almost. He needed a fix in the worst possible way, which was why he was here. _There's no place like fucking home._

The entire sector was full of sprawling mansions in every conceivable style from Georgian to neoclassical to Miami Beach chic, but this one, like its owner, was singular and matched nothing else around it. Perched atop a small rise, it might have appeared stark or even ugly to an untrained eye: in the place of frou-frou scrollwork, verandas, and sculpted marble were sharp angles, steel, and floor-to-ceiling glass. Like Kruger himself, it was sharp and precise. It shimmered in the sunlight like a mirage. Years ago, Kruger had drawn it up to his exact specifications, a combined effort courtesy of his favorite architects from the old country, SAOTA and Wessels Joyce Associates. He was proud of it and loved to show it off on those occasions he threw parties of his own, or even when he brought his female flavor of the week home for some extra-curricular activities. Kruger may not have spent much time here, it was true, but since he'd been rich even back when the torus was built, he'd decided to go all-out. Some of his fellow residents surely thought it the incongruous home was an eyesore (and had even nicknamed one of the hyper-modern sculptures inside, of a bright yellow neon rat crouching on its hind legs, by that moniker), but Kruger was happy to call it his own. When you spent most of your leisure time living in shanties and ships and hidey-holes in filthy Earth cities, as he had, you quickly learned to appreciate the value of personal comforts.

Though his visits home were increasingly rare, Kruger spared no expense with its security. At first glance, it might have appeared completely unguarded, but a closer inspection revealed several layers of top-level defenses in place: a nearly invisible force field shield similar to but much more powerful than the one generated by his armor pack, which would stun any intruder, regular perimeter patrols by silent but deadly airborne drones, and DNA-based locks which could only be opened by his unique genetic signature.

He'd initially considered Dobermans, or even a pack of genetically engineered hyenas, before deciding that was too theatrical even for him. It must have been his strange humor that incorporated the snarling sounds of those beasts as part of the system, though…the few intruders who'd gotten past the first level of security had quickly run away once they'd heard that.

As he approached now, it was as if the house had been waiting for him. With a few taps to his comlink, Kruger entered the security codes for that particular day. It was hard to believe he'd once resisted the idea of having data uploaded directly into his brain. Now he couldn't imagine life without it. _Makes keeping security a lot easier, and all the porn I could ever want on demand…gotta love modern technology, eh?_

Having disabled all the outward traps, Kruger made his way inside to the foyer, which was seemingly empty. His home was just the way he'd left it: immaculate, spotless, and, despite the overwhelming presence of Eyesore, tastefully decorated in an ultra-modern style with shades of off-white and grey. He stretched like a big cat and took a deep breath. With a slight wince, he realized the sharp tang he smelled wasn't coming from anywhere in the house itself, but rather from underneath his armpits. He'd put on a clean set of fatigues that morning, and usually didn't perspire much, but today, for some reason, he was sweating profusely. Before this party, he'd need a bath in his walk-in shower on the second floor. He'd enjoy it, and give his hair and beard a needed trim while he was at it. _The things I forget to do while I'm working, _he thought with amusement.

So deep was he in thoughts of hot, tropical rain on his body that Kruger almost missed it when he reached the stairs. Most people would have, but Kruger was not most people, and one of the reasons he was still alive was his uncanny eye for the small things.

One of the items from the curio was missing, and it took a moment for him to realize what it was. A piece of coral from one of the now-sunken Indian Ocean islands. Everything else was still there, as if it had never been touched. Only that single piece was gone. It was like one of those children's games where the object was to spot the irregularity. Kruger frowned, stooping down to study the empty space more closely.

_Why the fuck would anyone bother taking that? There's enough valuables in here to finance a private army, if you know where to look. _But nothing else had been disturbed. Leaning in even closer, Kruger sniffer deeply as if he were a bloodhound trying to find its quarry. The lingering scent was faint, like a memory of a memory, but it registered immediately.

The girl. The one whose golden thread kept him coming back again and again. It was her. Somehow, some way, she'd been here, and taken that tiny bit of coral as a souvenir.

He paced back and forth, all thoughts of a hot shower forgotten for the moment, and in their place, a hundred questions circling around the act of petty theft. Kruger had no name for the feeling that surged through him. It was perplexing how anyone, much less a girl, could slip through all the layers of home defense. At the same time, the thought thrilled him, because it meant, at least in his mind, that she'd gone looking for him just as he sought her out. _Why the fuck else would she be here? _Thanks to Drake's secret correspondence with the girl, which Kruger had eagerly devoured that last night in Dubai, he'd now been fully filled in on Lorelei's poor, sad life: how she hated her aunt and her shrink, her struggles fitting in, and oh, how she was terrified of the big, bad "boogeyman" who came visiting her at night. That was enough to elicit another wolfish grin. Nowhere in the letters, though, had the girl said anything about coming here. If it was her who had stolen the coral, and he was sure of it now, Kruger wondered why she hadn't mentioned it.

Why she'd go searching for the thing that scared her most, well, that was something he'd just have to figure out. There was time enough…and maybe, if he were lucky, Kruger thought he might get to ask her face to face tonight.

As he climbed the stairs two at a time, Kruger was positively grinning.

_To Be Continued_


	10. Uninvited

Chapter 11

**Author's Notes: If you're still following this story, I recommend going back and reading the previous chapter, since a few plot points have changed. My thanks as always to the fabulous Wrecking Kru (leave your sanity, MauMauKa, and Krugerstop) for their ongoing support and friendship. There's also an Easter egg here for those of you who saw Neill Blomkamp's **_**Chappie**_** this past week. Enjoy!**

It occurred to Lorelei how seldom she saw her mother anymore. There were reasons for this,, supposedly, and whenever she asked about them, Aunt Jessica would give the usual non-answer. Lorelei had her own ideas, and if the plastic bag of pills she'd found stuffed into the back of Helene's dresser drawer were any indication, that was probably the root of it. Her aunt never had anything nice to say about drug users, whom she called "parasites" and "junkies." Lorelei had listened in on enough Defense Council meetings to know a lot of other people on the torus obediently echoed these sentiments publicly, even if many of them were addicted themselves.

Even if Helene Delacourt was a parasite or a junkie, she was still Lorelei's mother. And Lorelei, in her own way, loved her. Their complicated estrangement was just another part of her life she wasn't supposed to talk about. Aunt Jessica had trained Lorelei so well in that department. _If you can't say something nice, _she recalled from some old Earth cartoon, _don't say anything at all. _

_But how am I supposed to say something nice, _Lorelei wondered as her mother fluttered about the room like a nervous bird, _if I don't even know what's going on? _She'd learned to accept it, and didn't ask too many questions. Besides, she'd never found a bag of pills like that again.

Party preparation was one of the few times she was allowed to get out from under her aunt's steely gaze and see her mother anymore. Helene had always had an eye for fashion and the latest trends; she was a bird of paradise next to her pragmatic elder sister, and always spent plenty of time and money to impress the citizenry of Elysium.

Lorelei looked miserably into the gilt-framed mirror before her. She'd have to spend the next hour or so being combed, perfumed, styled, and otherwise primped, all in the name of fashion. It was as if she were the tiny, delicate dog her mother had never bought. Just a toy. An accessory. Still, she tolerated it for two reasons. It was less painful than sitting through school or one of Aunt Jessica's "leadership" lectures…and if it meant finally meeting the infamous Agent Drake face to face, it was more than worth an hour or two of discomfort.

"Look at you, _petit_," Helene cooed as she pinched Lorelei's cheek playfully. She was everything Lorelei was not: tall, dark-haired, effortlessly elegant even in her dressing gown and slippers. In that most superficial of ways, Lorelei envied her. "You are going to look just like a little princess when Gerard and Lili finish with you."

"I guess," Lorelei said with a noncommittal shrug. She didn't bother to tell her mother that she had hated pink for years now, or that the frothy dress they'd picked for her looked like some demented cupcake come to life. _A pink nightmare_. Helene had probably spent more time picking it out than Aunt Jessica spent in defense briefings. Besides, if Lorelei's plan worked, it didn't matter anyway. The dress would wind up stuffed in the incinerator, and she'd be free to roam and, hopefully, meet Drake. "Did it _have_ to be pink?" she protested weakly.

Helene looked as if she'd been slapped. "You look awful in green or blue; you know that," she explained, probably neither knowing nor caring that those were her daughter's favorite colors. "Besides, you want to match _my _dress, don't you?"

Of all the things Lorelei had worried about that day, this had barely registered on the radar. "Yes," she agreed with a smile that was somewhat too enthusiastic, hoping it would placate her mother. "It's not that color pink, though, is it?"

"Oh, goodness, no," Helene said with a giggle. "I'm far too old for that shade. You'll look so adorable, though, won't she, Gerard?"

"_Oui, _Mademoiselle Delacourt," agreed her valet, a slim, handsome, mustachioed man of indeterminate age. Lorelei had always wondered why her mother employed human servants as well as droids. Maybe she just got lonely since Lorelei had moved out. Or maybe Gerard and the nearly silent Lili were saving up for a place on the torus, just like Lorelei's teacher. _Indentured servants, _Lorelei remembered from a history lesson, _that's what they were called_. There were more a few of them on Elysium: café servers, dancers, lab techs, some the sons and daughters of lesser families, all of them working toward an impossible dream. Like the people on Earth, Lorelei sometimes wondered about the mundane details of their lives. Still, Aunt Jessica had told her over the years never to dwell too much on those of lower station, and so Lorelei tried not to.

Gerard, though, possessed a palpable warmth, and he was hard for Lorelei to ignore, much less dislike. "So, young mademoiselle, shall we make you look beautiful to catch that special gentleman's eye tonight?" he said in his suave Parisian dialect, testing Lorelei's golden hair with one hand as Helene watched approvingly.

Lorelei couldn't help but laugh. "I'm ten, Gerard. I don't have a boyfriend," she said.

"Ah, but you may by the end of tonight, no?"

As he and Lili began to brush and style her hair into gravity-defying curls and loops, Lorelei smiled to herself. She _was _trying to catch someone's eye, and only she knew whose. It was her private secret, like the tiny piece of coral she'd been keeping in the toe of her right shoe for luck, the one she'd stolen from the house she'd been drawn to like iron filings to a magnet for all these years now. _I still don't even know whose it is. Maybe it's just a model._

Normally Lorelei hated these "beauty regimens," being naturally tender-headed, but Gerard and Lili were so skilled that she barely noticed. She kept thinking about that huge, empty house as they brushed, curled and piled her golden tresses. It was too bad all their work was for nothing, as she'd just be pulling it out by hand later on.

_I wonder what he'll wear? And how will I recognize him?_

Her mind drifted again. Somewhere, Gerard and Helene were carrying on in French…were they talking to her? She could almost fall asleep in this chair. Then she remembered what would happen if she did.

_I'll be here waiting for you, girl._

It was as if the boogeyman were right there next to her, whispering as seductively into one ear as that rasp of his would allow. But he wasn't there…he couldn't be…unless Dr. Perrine were right and she really had started to hallucinate. Lorelei must have flinched just then, because Gerard pulled back immediately, a look of alarm on his handsome face.

"Something wrong, mademoiselle?" he asked her. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, Gerard. You didn't." At that moment she wanted to bolt from the chair, from the room, from her life. The panic rat gnawed at the lining of her stomach, threatening to free itself again. This couldn't happen here…not in front of Helene. Lorelei inhaled deeply, counted to ten, the way Mr. Smith had shown her. _Fear can control us, or we can control it. _With each ascending number, she screwed her eyes more tightly shut, willing her tormentor to leave. When she'd finished, Lorelei opened her eyes…and saw only the alarmed faces of Gerard and Lili, as well as her mother.

No one spoke for a moment. Then, as if nothing at all had happened, Lorelei put on her best false smile. "Sorry. My mind wanders when I'm just sitting here," she said, knowing how stupid that sounded.

Gerard, clearly not fooled, said nothing, but looked to Helene for direction. "She's always being silly. She's my little _geniale." _Helene laughed. "Aren't you, _petit_?"

"Uh-huh." Lorelei tried not to wince as Lili resumed her hairdressing, more forcibly this time. "That's me."

She exhaled a mental sigh of relief. That had been close.

In the mirror, a different girl's reflection stared back at Lorelei. She was beautiful, her silky blonde hair piled into a fashionable updo, her face expertly coated with just the right amount of makeup for a girl of ten. If she didn't know better, she might have been looking at an old photograph of Aunt Jessica from an album. It would take a lot longer than she thought to transform back into herself.

"You're sure you're all right, mademoiselle?" Gerard muttered into her left ear. "You looked like you just saw a ghost."

In a way, she had…but she didn't bother telling him that.

Kruger had been in this line of work nearly two hundred years, and there were few things he hadn't seen, experienced, touched, or otherwise encountered. This was one of those rarest of times, and even he had to raise an eyebrow at the results of the Prosopos face-changer as he stared into his full-length bedroom mirror.

His own reflection - craggy, weathered, with the distinctive cheek and temple implants of a senior field agent – had been replaced with that of another man entirely. Kruger had already seen the dossier for the man he was impersonating, Stocks, and his agency photos. It still hadn't prepared him for how fucking _young _this guy was. Not a single grey hair, laugh line, crow's foot, or any other trace of advanced age stared back from the reflective surface. Kruger knew the med-bay technology had vastly improved since he first started getting re-gens over a century ago, but how exactly was the CCB recruiting these new guys now? From cradles? Stocks, despite his quarter-century of experience under his belt, was just a kid.

_Or maybe, _I'm _the one who's getting too fucking old for this job. Not many of us Gen 1s left anymore. _

When he'd gotten over the initial shock of seeing his holographically generated disguise for the evening, Kruger had to admit that Tselios had done a good job picking out a similar face from the crowd of CCB's many agents. Stocks, though not as angular as Kruger, did have a beard and a reasonably hawkish nose. He wouldn't have to do a double take every time he passed a mirror tonight. He'd done enough ops over the years in disguise or from under his stealth cloak, but given a choice, he'd always preferred that the target see his true face, with its fathomless black eyes and rough features. It made them more fearful, and a scared target was an easier one to break. Or destroy entirely.

The smile that appeared on the impostor's face was almost as wolfish as Kruger's normal predatory grin. He'd been thinking of the girl just then. _She'd _be his target tonight, and if he was successful, he'd take her on a little excursion back to his place for some bonding time. How exciting would that be?

If that bitch of an aunt had the slightest idea, she'd have the girl surrounded by a phalanx of security droids all night. There would be security to slip past, of course – a given at these types of events – but the threat was perceived to be strictly external. Kruger, in his perfectly tailored navy suit and tie, looked as if he belonged at the Elysian social event of the year. No one, not Delacourt or the girl or anyone else would ever see him coming.

Just like he wanted.

All day, in addition to making himself over into "Stocks," Kruger had been turning over several questions in his mind. He had never been the kind of man who liked riddles, much less those without any answers. If asked, in the guise of this previously MIA agent, where he'd been all these months and why he was attending a swank party instead of an Earthbound debriefing, he'd simply make up some _kak _about files getting mixed up. It happened all the time, especially for the older agents. Some things had never changed from his earliest days with the CCB, and endless bureaucracy was one of those. Chances were he _wouldn't _be asked anything, much less interrogated, at a party like this, but he knew the importance of covering one's tracks. There was the issue of fingerprints, but Tselios had assured him that was covered by this clever little app…any time Kruger used a biometric scanner or lock, it would be Stocks' profile, and not his own, which appeared in the system. Having never used a Prosopos himself in the line of duty, Kruger assumed all of this was correct. _If some Earth hacker came up with it, and not the Bureau, that's a pretty fucking sure bet. They spend their whole fucking lives looking for loopholes down there._

A quick glance to his expensive wristwatch – another thing Kruger owned plenty of, but only rarely wore – told him it was time to go. As he looked in the mirror for a final check, that unfamiliar face smirked back at him with an expression only slightly less lupine than usual. He'd have plenty of time later tonight…he never slept much…and when he did return, he wouldn't be alone. It would be rude not to let his guest appreciate him for who he really was.

~~s~~

"Stop fidgeting, _petit_. You'll ruin your hair and your dress," Helene said for at least the third time during their brief aircar ride to the venue. She peered critically over her holo-reader.

Lorelei didn't see how either would be possible. She felt, and looked, like a girl stuffed into a particularly frothy pale pink cupcake, but that wasn't what was bothering her. Every nerve ending in her body felt supercharged, humming with electricity. And why wouldn't they be? She'd been waiting for this meeting for years now, ready to see that mysterious man behind the curtain for who he really was at last. As for the dress, she didn't care one way or another. It would wind up stuffed up into an incinerator bin before long. The hard part had been smuggling the duffle bag containing her change of clothes on board.

Thankfully, Mr. Smith wasn't with her tonight. He'd have known right away that something was up, just like he always did. When Lorelei had asked him where he was going, he'd only favored her with a serene smile and the vaguest of answers.

"Business, Miss Delacourt. Always business." He'd left it at that, neither indicating to her what sort of business it was or whether she'd even see him tonight.

It occurred to Lorelei that he must have things to do outside spending time with her; she'd just never stopped to consider what those might be, and out of her admiration for him, had never gone digging for his files in the Elysian servers. Like everyone else she knew, including herself, Mr. Smith seemed to exist to do her aunt's bidding.

She squirmed again, and not from the unfamiliar feeling of the dress' shimmering fabric against her sensitive skin.

Helene was too immersed in one of her holo-chats with another partygoer to notice. Lorelei looked at her mother askance, every inch of her coiffed, tailored and perfect in a low-cut fuchsia silk gown, and wondered for at least the millionth time in her young life how the two of them could possibly be related. Everyone always said Lorelei favored her aunt, not her mother. Their hair color was the same, but so what? There were so many blondes on the torus that Lorelei felt like a dandelion in the presence of roses sometimes. At the moment, she didn't favor either of them. Both of them were too wrapped up in their own busy lives to notice, or care about, Lorelei's own problems. In so many ways her aunt and her mother were so different, but that selfishness, that complete indifference to a young girl in their lives, bound them together. Had they never been her age? Lorelei knew they were old, but everyone had been a child once, right?

_If only Mr. Smith were here. He'd understand. _

Inside their Ducati aircar, it was just her, Helene, an uncharacteristically silent Gerard, and a younger CCB agent, Hightower, who had all the personality and warmth of a dead salmon. Uncomfortable as it was, Lorelei tried not to squirm even more thinking about what awaited her as they began their descent. Just getting into the venue would be a gauntlet: paparazzi photographers, strangers to greet, poses to strike in this stupid dress and elaborate hairstyle that were better suited to a living doll than a flesh-and-blood girl. Then there would be the mingling. Pretending to like people she'd never met, all for the sake of…

Who? Not Lorelei herself. For others, for her mother and aunt, just like always. She wasn't a daughter or a niece; she was an accessory. As she looked sideways at her mother, primping at the last moment as the aircar settled onto its landing pad, Lorelei wondered if Helene should have just skipped motherhood altogether and bought a pedigreed toy dog.

"Ready for your big debut?" Helene stood, not wobbling at all on her stilettos, and beamed at Lorelei.

Lorelei would rather have been anywhere right then, even back in the sims facing down the hooded menace, but it would be pointless to say so. She just nodded. "I guess," she mumbled.

While Hightower stood and Gerard opened the door, Helene leaned in closer and cupped Lorelei's chin under her hand. "It's a party, _petit. _Not a funeral. I know you don't like attending these sorts of things, but, won't you at least try and enjoy yourself? For me?"

She couldn't remember the last time her mother had even tried to connect like this, let alone taken into account Lorelei's own feelings. For a moment she was speechless. Then, she found the words…and remembered the duffle bag hidden underneath the aircar seat. "All right," Lorelei said, "but you owe me."

"Of course." Helene turned, ready to face her adoring audience. She'd been born for this life. "Now, _petit_," she said from between her teeth, "please remember to smile."

Lorelei grinned, thinking of how different she'd look in a short amount of time, and how surprised Mr. Drake would be to finally see her. She followed her mother out onto the red carpet and its parted sea of onlookers.

_I can do this._

~~s~~

In another part of the event hall, far removed from the glitter and pomp of the red carpet entrance, deep within its maze of corridors where few humans ever ventured, a solitary figure moved as stealthily as a shadow detached from its host body. Kruger was at home in these confines; always had been. The few droids he'd passed barely acknowledged his presence. Evan Stocks was a perfectly acceptable party guest; C.M. Kruger had been blacklisted for this particular soiree. Even the physical disguise itself wasn't all bad. Stocks' lean, angular face and beard were a good enough match so that, whenever Kruger passed by a reflective surface in the service corridors, he didn't do that telltale double take. The dark suit, one of many he owned that had been custom-tailored for him but which he rarely wore, allowed just as much movement as any set of fatigues did. That, and it perfectly concealed the small arsenal of weapons he wore underneath. The marvels of modern engineering.

He'd enjoy hunting his quarry tonight, truly. In all his previous encounters with her since her return to Elysium, she'd been a passive prey, a mere sleeping beauty in need of a dark prince's touch. That had long since begun to bore him. Like with any of his favorite drugs, Kruger needed to up the ante, to push the envelope just that much farther until it slid into some Stygian abyss, a place only he ever dared venture.

Tonight, though, he'd have a little company for a change. A little golden light down there in the depths with him. Hunting her, a wolf among these flocks of well-dressed sheep, was going to be so, so much fun.

At the first checkpoint leading into the hall, Kruger met with only a passing glance from the Praetorian droid at the barrier. His ID, which the droid read from "Stocks'" bio-scan, checked out fine. "Cleared, Agent 22 Theta Green," droned the machine. So far, so good. As advanced as Elysium was, there were never enough people to do the massive amounts of data entry the CCB required to keep current on every last one of its workers. Things fell through the cracks and lay mislabeled in forgotten files until someone picked them up again. Someone like him, who knew an opportunity when it presented itself on a silver platter like this one had.

He passed another droid with the same result. It was all he could do to keep from grinning with the sheer anticipation of what lay ahead.

Up the ramp, Kruger could see into the massive ballroom at last, decorated in autumnal finery so elaborate as to suggest a fantastic mirage: diamond-encrusted chandeliers, sparking candelabras on every table, a gilded forest of real aspens and birches. The Elysian guests of honor hadn't arrived just yet; they'd want to arrive in their own inimitable styles. Scores of service droids and human catering staff moved busily about, making last-minute touches to the decor and moving a dozen enormous ice sculptures into place. Stupid things, like swans and leaping deer. Why anyone would want to waste good water like that, Kruger would never know.

There were a few agents milling around as well. Some Kruger knew, others were strangers, but none of them gave him a second look. He belonged here, just as they did. Perfect. Before, at his place, he'd memorized Stocks' dossier, learned who his friends and enemies were, every known detail of the guy's personal life, and discovered they had more than a few Old Country acquaintances in common. Some of them, Kruger hadn't seen in years. Naidoo, Marais, even the legendary pair of Jones and Du Toit, two of the only agents who were nearly as feared as himself. If he were lucky, maybe he'd have time to catch up with them…as Stocks, of course…in between stalking his golden prize.

He looked at his watch again. Just past eight; getting closer. Until then, Kruger had plenty of time to really explore the surroundings, and fantasize about what he'd do with his little prize once she was his again.

_I can do this. And I'm just here waiting for you, sweetheart._

_To Be Continued_


	11. The Hunting Party

**Chapter 11**

**Author's Notes: My readers deserve an apology because of the delay. Life has kept me busy, but I'm slowly but surely getting back to writing. As always, my thanks go out to the Wrecking Kru for their support and love. And I'll freely admit I was listening to the rapping dog from the animated Titanic movie to set the mood for this scene. On with the show.**

Jessica Delacourt had always hated parties.

She'd attended thousands of them over the years, declined invitations to thousands more, been conditioned, more or less, to engage in the juggling act of networking, espionage, chicanery, and false sincerity that came with every high-society event. But truly _enjoy _a party? It was one of the few tasks at which her younger sister Helene outshone her.

As she shook hands with yet another mid-level CCB functionary whose name she'd forget five minutes later, Jessica decided that wasn't so bad.

"Enjoy the evening, Monsieur Borz," she said, flashing as wide a smile as she dared. The dark-haired man beamed back, then moved off into the teeming crowd. Who knew if she'd ever see him again? She didn't suppose it mattered.

Her hands were beginning to ache, as were her ankles. Every step she took in the silver stilettos reminded her that she was not getting any younger despite her daily med-bay regimen. Every handshake made her wish she was secluded in her office, doing actual work, instead of fluttering around like some stupid magpie, making useless small talk.

_Helene, my dear sister, this arena was created for you, not me. _Somewhere, perhaps fifty feet away, the younger Miss Delacourt was entertaining a bevy of very admiring, very well-dressed, very rich men.

Jessica, however, was all business. The theme of this year's celebration…which an entire committee always spent weeks preparing in advance... was a masquerade in the time of Louis XIV. In a room full of elaborate hoop skirts, towering wigs, and diamonds, her own disguise was limited to an emerald eye mask. As always, she refused to leave her work entirely behind. Her comm was discreetly tucked behind one ear, and Agent Smith and his security team were only a whisper away in the event of any trouble. They might be needed, if any of the intelligence briefings were correct. Any assassin or sniper would have his pick of targets at the _Fete_: most of Elysium and Earth's highest-ranking officials and civilians, conveniently gathered under one roof for the night. Jessica had been so worried, she'd gathered every available field agent plus a few dozen retirees, stuffed them into designer suits, and made them attend, just to give herself peace of mind.

_All except one. And hopefully, he's somewhere far away._ Jessica dared not even speak Kruger's name silently in her mind, as if the mere thought could summon him.

It hadn't stopped her from imagining him tonight; out of the corner of her eye, Jessica could have sworn she'd that distinctive hawkish profile at least half a dozen times already. Just her imagination. She was being paranoid. Even five years after the Incident, she still had Kruger on the brain. Like he was standing over her, taunting, that raspy voice whispering obscene sweet nothings into her ear…

Jessica shuddered violently, and it had nothing to do with the gauzy, sleeveless Dior silver gown she wore. She took a warming sip of hot cider from a passing waiter droid. Kruger wasn't here. _Couldn't_ be here. She'd given orders for him to be incapacitated if he came within five kilometers of the grand ballroom that night.

Among the richly bedecked crowd of partygoers, there were few, if any, who knew Agent 32 Alpha at all, much less as intimately as Jessica Delacourt did. They could live their fat, rich, happy lives without ever worrying about a nighttime visit from the face of evil itself. Worse, worrying that their children might receive such a visit.

She hadn't told anyone, not even Agent Smith, but Jessica had gotten wise to Kruger's nasty addiction a long time ago. Not long after the Incident, in fact, when Lorelei's night terrors began and the mysterious gaps in the security footage first appeared. There was no way to definitively prove it, nothing stronger than her own intuition, but Jessica knew that the two of them, the girl and the fierce, ageless mercenary, would always be connected.

_Blood really is thicker than water, it would seem._

"You look glum. At least I'm not the only one," came a familiar voice, speaking French in a confidential, low tone and breaking Delacourt's silent meditation.

Perrine had silently edged in beside her, and there was no telling how long she'd stood there, waiting for the right time. She had a way of doing that, and Jessica always had to remind herself that the good doctor, like Kruger, was a Gen 1 agent with nearly two centuries of stealth training.

"It's not glum. It's…" Jessica tried to think of the right word.

"Pensive? Annoyed? Sulky?" Perrine smiled wryly. "It's so hard to tell with you." She wore a charcoal grey, floor-length satin gown more suited to a funeral than a celebration, and her hair and makeup were typically austere. No disguise for her, not even a mask. She, like Jessica, was also on duty this evening.

Jessica couldn't argue. "I have so much on my mind," she admitted, dropping her voice by another half-octave. This was not the time or place to be overheard. Casually, the two women made their way to an empty spot next to one of the ice sculptures. "Is Lorelei enjoying herself? She dreads these events almost as much as I do."

Perrine frowned, then shrugged. "I've barely seen your niece today, apart from our regular session this morning. Agent Smith and his lieutenant are with her at the moment, so we know she's in good hands."

"I'm sure," Jessica said, off-handedly. Lorelei was comparatively low on her list of priorities, somewhere just behind her mental notes for the torus' upgraded plasma shield system at the moment. The two of them had barely spoken since their fight a few days ago. That was worrisome enough. "Does she…Lorelei…seem like she's out of sorts to you, or has she mentioned anything in your sessions?" She tried to sound as casual as she could.

"How so?"

There was no way of asking the question without disclosing the true motivation behind it, so Jessica kept playing it cool. "As if something is bothering her? Maybe at school, or a falling out with one of her friends?" _Those were the things that got to _me _when I was her age, right? It was all so long ago that I hardly remember._

The dark-haired woman, much like her cohort Garrett Smith, never betrayed the slightest hint of emotion. The brief glint in her eyes might have been amusement, irritation, or simply a reflection from one of the thousands of hovering, ever-changing, multicolored LED lamps in the ballroom. She sighed. "Your niece is still a child, _mon amie_. She is going through what all girls do at her age. Anxiety about fitting in. Petty gossip and back-biting among friends. Perhaps even a crush on a boy that she won't let on about, who knows..."

Jessica shuddered again. That was a twist she'd never stopped to consider. Could Lorelei actually have developed feelings, even subconscious ones, for her nocturnal visitor? At the tender age of ten, no less? The thought was almost too horrifying to imagine. But then, Lorelei _had _followed Kruger into the belly of the beast once before, despite the dangers, the sentries, and the explicit warnings. A girl named for a legendary siren, drawn as if by a siren song herself. The irony was enough to make the Defense Secretary chuckle drily despite her initial revulsion.

"I certainly hope not. When the time is right, all of it will be carefully arranged. You know that as well as I," said Jessica, remembering how much she'd hated that part of her life. No doubt Lorelei would be just as reluctant, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

Perrine, who had never married and, as far as Jessica knew, never even had a serious partner of either gender, only gave that sphinx-like smile of hers. "No doubt it is important. Any candidates you have in mind?"The subject had never been addressed in their secret meetings, probably only because Lorelei was still so young.

That was fairly far down the list of priorities as well, and realistically at least five or six years away, but Jessica had given it a good bit of thought. Lorelei's superior genetics would prove dominant in any children she may eventually have, but that didn't mean she still didn't need the right suitor. Any potential mate would have to be from a suitable family, an elite even among Elysians, and he would have to help form a strong political alliance_. _It would also help if she actually liked him, since she might be with him for a century or more."Well, three, in fact. There's the President's great-nephew, Sanjay, though I always thought he was a bit of a milquetoast. Lorelei 's so strong-willed; she would walk all over him. But, she's good friends with his sister Anila already…isn't that strange how two siblings can be so different." She glanced over to where Helene held court, and frowned.

"Indeed. Go on."

"John Carlyle's youngest grandson, you know, that black-haired boy, Kieran. That would create even closer ties to Armadyne. He's clever enough, a tech genius, and of the right class, but I just don't trust him." Jessica's lips tightened with her candor. "Maybe I'm only imagining it. But Lorelei always makes excuses to be out of the house when any of the Carlyles are over."

Perrine, ever inscrutable, did not offer her own opinion of the Carlyle family, instead simply prompting "And the third?"

"You might say he's a dark horse, but you remember the Brazilian conglomerate CEO? Dos Santos?"

"How could I forget him? That gaudy barge of his, too? At least he finally went back to Mars, where he and his kind belong." Perrine gave a haughty sniff. The delegations from the Martian and asteroid mining colonies, spendthrifts all, loved to make an entrance and show off their wealth even more so than Elysians. A group of them, led by the president and CEO of their largest energy syndicate, had visited over the summer. "What was that boy's name, anyway? The handsome one?"

Jessica knew immediately whom she referred to. "Rafael. Every bit as smooth and charming a scion as you'd expect from their family. Richer than Croesus, too." A few years older than Lorelei, perfectly bronzed to match Lorelei's platinum hues. To be sure, it would be an unorthodox choice, but Delacourt knew that if she could convince the Defense Council to approve the budget for a multi-billion credit shielding system, that would be easy by comparison. Rafael, at the moment, was her preferred candidate. If she married the young Brazilian one day, Lorelei would be a month's travel away, for sure…but she'd also be far, far away from Kruger. Jessica smirked as she took another sip of cider.

"Do keep me informed. We'll discuss this, I'm sure, in more detail as time progresses." Perrine's customary air of slight _ennui_ had not left. "For now, I'll endeavor to enjoy myself. This is a party, after all. Won't you excuse me, Jessica?"

"Of course." She was secretly relieved. Keeping up a conversation with the doctor was often a one-sided affair, and she herself was no raconteur. "Until Tuesday, then."

Perrine melted into the crowd without another word, a grey dove in a sea of brightly colored plumage. That was the thing about CCB agents, especially the Gen 1's. One never noticed them until it was too late.

Jessica wouldn't miss her for the rest of the evening. She knew the psychiatrist was consistently irritated by Lorelei's stubborn and willful behavior, and she'd had to beg Perrine several times to keep on board the Project. She hoped she wouldn't need to do it again…but with Lorelei galloping toward puberty, it wasn't likely. She sighed.

The _Fete_ was really only getting started, and luckily, so far, the only crisis had been some fool knocking over one of the ice sculptures. Perhaps it would be another few hours of smooth sailing. Maybe, thought Jessica, all the chatter and rumors had been just that…_rumors_.

She didn't hold out hope for that, either. Besides, Kruger was sure to make an appearance. He wouldn't pass up the opportunity to anger the authorities, openly disobey her orders, _and _go for the golden prize, all in the course of one night. He hadn't shown himself yet. But Jessica, like Kruger himself, was patient.

She waited.

~~s~~

"Fuck, man. You think it's a big deal?"

"Relax, boss. They got about three dozen more of these things. Nobody will miss it."

Drake had tried stepping in front of what had been an ice carving of a swan, directing guests elsewhere, and shoving chunks of it under a table, but it was no use. The thing was well and truly shattered into a million pieces. Several droids clustered around, removing it bit by bit to the kitchens. A few guests were pointing from across the room and whispering.

It had happened, of course, because he was bored. He, Crowe, and Tselios had been mostly standing in place all night. Nothing was happening. Since they were on duty, and the extensive open bars were off limits, Crowe had started reminiscing in a low voice about one of their old missions, back when they were still part of Kruger's squadron. In rough whispers, the two of them had begun discussing, then arguing about, body counts on a particularly nasty op in Libya. One thing had led to another. Even completely sober, they'd had it out, in their old friendly rivalry way, and Crowe had shoved him right into the fucking swan. After Tselios had finished laughing like a rabid hyena, Drake had swallowed his pride and embarrassment. He'd gotten chewed out pretty badly over his comm by the captain of their sector for _that_ little maneuver. So much for being professional.

In a way, he wished Kruger were here. His old boss would liven up the place. In a room full of stuffed shirts, tight asses, and enormous egos, Kruger was a breath of fresh air. Stale beer and tobacco-scented air, but fresh air nonetheless. Drake found himself grinning at the thought of 32 Alpha crashing a party like this.

He gulped down more mineral water, wishing it were beer.

"Hey, boss. I got nothing to report over here. All clear," Tselios's voice came through his ear comm.

"Right. Just keep at it, and for fuck's sake, stay away from that blonde in the red dress," Drake admonished, knowing the younger man's weaknesses all too well.

Aside from the humiliation of being a glorified rent-a-cop for the night, he hated the dress code. He simply wasn't a suit and tie kind of guy. Not just that, but the CCB brass, in the interest of their employees blending in, asked that any agent with an "unusual" style change it for the evening. In the place of his usual Mohawk, Drake wore what Crowe had described as out of control, lumpy brown fungus, tamed only slightly with styling products. Apparently baldness wasn't considered unusual, so the pilot remained as he always did. He was still snickering about the whole affair.

"When your wife fucks you at night, does she disinfect herself afterward, boet?" Crowe had joked upon first seeing the new-and-improved full head of hair.

Drake didn't find it funny anymore. It was one thing if Kruger made him the butt of jokes, but Crowe? The original arse-head himself? It just didn't seem right.

The one face he desperately sought in the crowd hadn't made an appearance yet, only increasing his agitation. He felt like a boy waiting on Christmas Eve; he hadn't been this nervous for a long time. There was no way to safely send a message through to her private channel, as all communications in and out of here would be monitored, but Drake was still doing a double-take any time he saw someone who even slightly resembled Lorelei Delacourt. Most every girl her age he saw was in some sort of frilly dress. That wasn't the little _meisie_'s style. No, she'd go for something unusual….but what? Drake didn't know enough about what ten-year-old girls did or didn't do. He was going only by what he knew of _her_. And the last time he'd seen her felt like a century earlier.

_Come on, girl. I've been waiting five years for this. Don't fucking let me down._

"Hey, boss. Jones and du Toit are up here right now. You wouldn't believe what they're doing," Tselios' deep voice came through the comm again.

"Shut up. Keep your eyes open," Drake warned, even though he was curious. The flamboyant but deadly husband and wife duo, also from the old country, were always popular topics of conversation in the agents' clubs. They wouldn't be stuffed into designer finery, keeping quiet and obeying the rules. They did what they wanted, wore what they chose, tossed around expletives like dice: in short; they just didn't care about established authority. Even Kruger admired them for that.

There was also Kruger himself to consider. Drake knew there was something going on between his old boss and the Delacourt girl. Kruger would turn up sooner or later; this opportunity was too golden for him to miss. But where? And how? He might don a disguise or he might, like Jones and du Toit, simply attend as himself.

_Golden_. Yet another blonde head passed by. There were enough of them up here on the torus to start their own offshoot colony. This one was too old.

"Come on, little _meisie," _Drake said under his breath. "Where are you?"

~~s~~

"Burn, baby, burn!" crowed Anila Patel.

"Where'd you hear that?" Lorelei asked her friend. She was right behind her in line.

"I don't know. One of those silly old Earth songs, I guess," the pretty raven-haired girl answered in her gentle lilt.

The three of them had met up in the little room, with its chute leading directly to the incinerator. It had become a tradition of sorts at these galas. They were peeling off their uncomfortable garb and throwing it inside to be burned. All except Esme, who stood frowning in the corner, arms crossed across her chest.

"We're going to get in so much trouble for this," she sniffed. Out of the three girls, she was the only one who had stayed in the outfit she'd arrived in, a confection almost as absurd as Lorelei's dress.

Anila, who now wore a shimmering turquoise and gold sari more suited for an older girl, shrugged. "They won't notice, let alone wonder about us. You know why I love these nights? Mother and Father couldn't care less what I'm doing. I don't feel like a goldfish in a bowl for once. Besides, if they were so inclined, they could always find us by our citizen markers. But they won't. They're too busy talking to other grown-ups."

"You said it!" agreed Lorelei, who was tugging on her child-sized camos and boots from the duffel bag she'd smuggled in. The frosted pink atrocity her mother had picked was surely a pile of ash by now. It had been so easy. She'd begged her handler for the night, Agent Hightower, to use the bathroom, and he'd agreed. That was fifteen minutes ago. Nobody, not even Mr. Smith, had come looking for her. It was exhilarating.

Esme, though, wasn't convinced. "I don't know how I let you two drag me into this," she sighed, even though she was always playing the role of sidekick to the more adventurous pair of Lorelei and Anila. "What's that on your face, anyway?"

"Oh, this?" Lorelei casually stroked the bottom part of her face, now painted with her mother's stolen mascara. "Don't I look great? Just like a real agent!"

"Do real agents have mascara on their chins?" Anila asked drily.

"No, silly! A beard!" said Lorelei, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a ten-year-old girl to sprout one. "You know, all those high-level agents have one. The ones that are top-secret."

"Your Agent Smith doesn't have one," Anila pointed out, "and besides, if they're so secret, how does anyone know what they look like?"

Lorelei had to stop and think about it. She stroked her chin, which left black smudge marks on her fingers. "I saw some of their dossiers when I snuck into Aunt Jessica's meetings. They're all really tough, and a lot of them have beards." That seemed like a reasonable explanation. She didn't want to tell her friends about all the times she'd hacked into Elysium's central servers; there were secrets she kept even from them. "Mr. Smith is his own man. Besides, he has dreadlocks, which is kind of cool. How many agents have those, do you think?" she wondered aloud as she finished buttoning up her camo tunic.

"None that I know of. Can we get out of here? Someone's going to walk in on us," Esme said. She was shaking all over. Her parents, both researchers, were low on the Elysian totem pole, though they were much more strict than most.

Lorelei, false beard and all, clapped a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Come on, where's your sense of adventure?"

"I think it's somewhere down the incinerator." Esme made a noise that was somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. "I blame you if we get caught."

"What's that on your shoulder? Is that some super-secret agent code too?" Anila asked, pointing to the embroidered patch with its silhouette of a four-legged, horned animal.

Lorelei froze. Part of her wanted to tell her friends her deepest, darkest secret of all: the strange connection between her and the hooded man. How she had come to dread his nighttime visits but also, in some twisted way, craved them just as much. How she'd been breaking into that huge, silent house with its planes and angles of glass for years now, and the way it reminded her of him. How she'd arranged a secret meeting tonight between her and Agent Drake…which she still fully intended to keep. Her thoughts ran in a hundred directions, and finally, after a moment, came back to the question at hand. The oryx. Lorelei made up a lie on the spot, the way she'd come to do, and hoped it sounded casual.

"Oh, that. It's just like Orson. You know, the stuffed toy I have?"

Anila snorted in jest. "Not only do you dress like a boy, you still play with dolls at your age. I'm embarrassed to call you my friend," she said with mock solemnity, then flashed a grin.

"Come on, then. This is a party, right? Let's have some fun!" Lorelei, among her feelings of excitement and joy, couldn't help but feel that tiniest bit of something else. Like she was being watched…as if somehow, even in this place, the dark man was there, waiting for her.

Then, as quickly as it had come, she dismissed it. She walked confidently through the door.

_I'm ready for anything…even him._

~~s~~

Garrett Smith stood in a shadowed, forgotten corner of the ballroom: silent, unmoving, a panther observing some poor, unsuspecting prey. One of the first things he had learned as an agent was economy of motion. _Never make any movement that isn't absolutely necessary_, his training sergeant had repeated over and over. _Then, you may truly become invisible. You won't even need a cloak or one of those lab-made creations. People only see what they want to see._

How right that man, now long dead, had been, Garrett thought. _I am invisible._

Hundreds, if not thousands, of partygoers had passed him by that evening, barely acknowledging his presence as he made his rounds. That was the way he liked it, whether working or at leisure. He was long-accustomed to being a curiosity on the largely lily-white torus, like a freakish attraction in an Earthbound carnival tent. He heard the whispers, noticed the raised eyebrows, smelled the fear and apprehension seeping through their pores. Though he was one of the few remaining first-generation agents, highly decorated and a member of Secretary Delacourt's innermost circle, to them, he would only ever be a useful servant.

Which was just one more complication in the relationship he'd developed with Lorelei.

Garrett involuntarily flinched, like a horse feeling a gnat on its flanks. He knew more about the girl than she probably knew about herself. In the five years he'd known her, he'd seen dossiers and files and images that would give less hardened men nightmares. He'd been to the lowest levels of the torus' bowels and witnessed firsthand all that had been necessary just for her to exist. On his "special assignments," he'd been forced to eliminate possible threats on Earth, people who'd heard rumors of the Project and couldn't be allowed to live and share those secrets. He knew about all the blood on Delacourt's, not to mention his own, hands.

And yet, he'd come to care for the girl anyway.

He felt an ironic smile twisting his mouth upward. Lorelei had that effect on him. Though Garrett had never had daughters, he imagined they might have been like her if he had. He always looked forward to their training sessions, and found himself wryly amused by her antics. She was everything her Aunt Jessica, and her mother, were not: wildly creative, empathetic, mischievous. Uncontrollable. In most ways, she hardly seemed a Delacourt at all, and Garrett had known most of them personally.

_I wonder where she got that trait?_

Five years he'd spent teaching Lorelei, training her, helping her to calm those inner storms. Even against her aunt's wishes, he'd walked with her through those murky dreamscapes as well as the sims. He'd seen that dark, hooded figure…and knew him for who he really was. Lorelei had once been so terrified of him that she'd been unable to think properly. It was his job to help her overcome it, and Garrett liked to think he'd succeeded. In some ways, he had, beyond anyone's expectations. Lorelei had learned to still her mind, think before she acted; she'd even become a sure shot in the sims. But he knew better. Until she knew the truth-the entire truth, not just her aunt's sanitized version-the girl would always be troubled, searching for those missing pieces of her life. The dark man in the cowl would still be there, waiting for her in the real world as well as the surreal. It was why he'd begged Jessica not to wipe her niece's memories following the Indicent. Garrett, of all people, knew what terrible damage lies, or even half-truths, could inflict.

And there was another elephant in this particular room. Like it or not, Lorelei _was _permanently bound to Agent Kruger, even if she only subconsciously realized it. No memory wipe or course in deep meditation would ever change that. They were bound not just by their very DNA, but by a deeper, stranger connection no one, not even Jessica, could have anticipated.

_It should have been me. _I _should have given her that last piece of the puzzle. I told Jessica from the start that she was making a grave mistake…and she still went ahead with it. _

"Agent Smith?" Hightower's voice over the comm was nervous, agitated. "Sir, we have a problem."

They were words Garrett never liked to hear. He took a deep breath and spoke calmly. "Go ahead, 782 Ypsilon. I'm listening."

"It's Syren. I've lost contact."

Out of all the possible things Hightower could have said, this was by far the worst. Garrett felt his pulse increase. "Last visual contact?"

He could almost hear the younger man's apprehension. "Ten minutes ago, when she went to the washroom. Never came out. Completely gave me the slip." A pause. "I'll keep looking, but I don't want to alert Briseis until we're sure," he added, using Secretary Delacourt's code name.

Garrett was one of the few people who knew that Lorelei's citizen marker was a false one; it wouldn't come up on any known tracking device. Her decoy's would, however. The girl who looked so much like Lorelei…her friend, Esme, who, unbeknownst to her, had been created for that specific role. "And her marker is negative, no doubt. Where's Naiad? They're probably close together." He was already in motion, ready to go in whatever direction he was needed.

"Sir, they're not. Naiad and Calypso…" _Anila Patel_, Garrett knew, "are together in sector 17-C, next to the dessert bar. Syren isn't. No telling where she's gone."

The big man hurried along, ignoring everything except the task at hand. Lorelei Delacourt had been off-grid once before; hundreds of agents had been enlisted to make sure that never happened again. And he didn't intend to let it. "Don't panic, Hightower. Think about all the places she might be. She can't be far away," he assured his subordinate.

Outwardly, he was the picture of calm, just like always. In his mind, Garrett just knew that somehow, however illogical it might be, that C.M. Kruger had something to do with all of this.

~~s~~

"Hey, Stocks! Long time, no see, _bru_."

"Thought they'd lost you in Indonesia, eh?"

"Jones and du Toit are gonna shit themselves when they see you've turned up."

Kruger had no idea what sort of man Agent Stocks was, other than what he'd read in the dossier, but apparently he was popular; at least a dozen of the South African agents' contingent had recognized him already. He'd only nodded and continued on his way; from the recordings Kruger had heard, his own reedy timbre was nothing like the other man's. The few times he'd paused to admire his reflection, he marveled at the subtle change in his physical appearance, even if he was the same old Kruger just beneath the neatly combed hair and smooth skin. Face-changing apps had been perfected even if the voice-changers had not. _Besides, _he thought wryly, _I'd never be able to pull off a Durban fancy-boy accent. The boys from the old country would know, even if none of these other Elysian fuckers might._

These parties were just as lavish as the ones in agents' private clubs. Any delight a man could want, from droplets of floating delicacies to elaborate, holographically projected scenes of the most exotic places left on Earth. Even some call girls of a much higher caliber than even he was used to. So far, Kruger had managed to ignore all of them. He'd come here for a singular purpose, and as yet, no sign of her. Sure, there were plenty of blonde girls; he was convinced they cloned them up here. Still, no golden prize.

He sniffed the air again, searching desperately for that particular scent signature. Years ago, as part of his bio-upgrades, the Elysian techs had honed his sense of smell to a sharpness just below a bloodhound's. If she were anywhere around, Kruger knew, he'd be able to tell. And she had to be. The little _meisie_ thought she was meeting Drake.

What a surprise she'd get.

The thrill of getting a fix right here, in front of everyone, was even more exhilarating than his nighttime excursions. _And_, Kruger thought, _if I don't get one pretty fucking soon, I'm gonna start withdrawals. _It had been nearly two weeks. No drug, not even the purest cocaine, had ever given him that same high as the otherworldly connection he had with the girl. And to think he'd discovered it completely by accident. She may have been an annoying chatterbox when she was awake. When she was asleep, she gave him a high that practically sang through his veins. What would the difference be when she was conscious, fully aware of his presence?

Kruger's nostrils flared. There _was _a trace of her, however faint. She'd passed through this way; the trail was perhaps ten minutes old. He wheeled about and followed, every step bringing her essence a little nearer. He could taste her already.

"Come and get some sweeties, girl. I promise you're gonna love them," he purred, not even trying to disguise his rough accent. "It won't hurt. Much."

_To Be Continued_


End file.
